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Undoukai: FIGHT!

Scenes from the Beautiful Mountain School's Sports Festival \(^o^)/
Fight! The Red Team`s Trendy Takayo makes team spirit fashionable with an English twist on the classic sports festival hachimaki (headband). Running in the rain is no reason to be be kawaikunai yo!

Good form!

Student president Shin cheers on his teammates during the crucial Senshu Relay, in which the runners are elected by their team members based on their speed. Not only is he fast (he comjpletely lapped the rest of the runners in one race), he is also thought to be the cutest guy in school, because he "looks like a foreigner." He got the highest test score in the school, and he`s good at English, too! Go Shin!

The White Rabbit: an event in which the lightest teammate is forced to risk his life running on the backs of his friends as they race around the track. Once the 'rabbit' successfully passes over them, the other kids race to the front of the line and assume the position until they have covered half the distance of the track. Sound dangerous? It is! The poor red rabbit fell down 6 times before finally breaking his ankle and being replaced.

The 3rd year students special event, the "Chain Gang Escape." Ichi ni! Ichi ni! Us teacher^types got cool *staff* shirts with Kitunchu, written on the back, supposedly the Okinawan dialect for people from Honshu. The top character 北、means north. The lower character, 人、means person.

Note that both of their legs are tied together, as well as to the people behind them. Events like this emphasize acting as "one heart" and "one mind."

Whtie team may have one, but Terrible Takayo, Yo Yo Yuya, Shin-chan and Kaz got nothing but love for each other. Peesu!

My girls! Natsuki, Ami, Mio, Takayo, and Ami.

Another %$#&'$ speech! For God`s sake please stop talking! Its pouring, and my bento awaits!

Hip hip Horray! Yuya is flung into the air by his loosing teammates. No tears! For the first time in 3 years of undokai, no tears! Its all good at the beautiful mountain school!

Unforgettable: The Children of Ta Prom

Things I will never forget: La's smile.

I've been putting off this post because I realized I am missing the CD of pictures I took at Ta Prom and the Bayon. I kept hoping it would magically materialize in my bookbag or under one of the many piles of junk accumulating in my apartment, but deep down, I know exactly where it is: On a computer in a Siem Reap interent cafe. (ioi) Saddness. At least I have my memories, and a comforting feeling that I will see these children again.

The way Ba scrambled up and over the crumbling ruins of the temples without any shoes.

When I first met Ba, he was hiding behind a moss colored sandstone wall, crouching among the piles of stones thrown down by the crushing roots of the Banyon trees. Like me, he seemed to be hinding from the few remaining tour groups rushing through the temple grounds, hurrying behind tour guides leaving echos of Spanish, Italian, French, Japanese and German echoing through the quiet courtyard. I sat alone in silence for awhile before I noticed him peaking out at me, only to take cover when I looked up at him. I began playing a game of peek-a-boo, which brought an adorabley beautiful smile to his dirt-smudged face. It was getting late, and the last of the tourists had long since passed through our secret courtyard, but I wasn't quite ready to leave this beautiful boy all alone.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, assuming he'd understand an exaggerated gesture of me scooping food into my mouth. He giggled. "You. Me. Yum yum?" He shook his head no and climbed back up on the rocks. "Oh, come on Ba! (We had been though the name and age formalities) I know your hungry! Let's go!" He scrambled up over the rocks and disappeared. I was sad to see him go, and sat down on the rocks again hoping he'd come back.

It didnt take long before he reappeared, popping his head out of a darkened doorway with his two friends La and Run close behind. He pointed at me, I assume telling his friends something along the lines of "This is that strange foreigner I was telling you about," although I cant be sure because it was in Khmer. "Come on!" He called to me smiling, ushering me into the darkness with the wave of his hand.

The way Run repeated everything I said, and then busted out into laughter that echoed through the temple courtyrads and chambers.

They led me through the shadow-filled halls of the temple, through tiny cracks and holes showing me hidden apsaras immortalized in stone. Through a small opening of tumbled stone they led me to a narrow chamber, pointing out the small, strangled head of a buddha peaking out through the tangled tree roots. The guided me through the temple laughing and playing with me, smiling all the way, trying their best to communicate in any way they could.

The pure joy of playing.

Getting to know the children: talking, laughing and playing with them. Learning about their lives, their families, their hopes and dreams...

Being able to make them smile so easily, and hearing them laugh.

By the time we left the temple it was almost 6 O' clock. I asked Ba, La and Run where they would like to eat, and they led me to a small stall staffed by a single woman with a huge smile on her face. She spoke very good English, and I told her to give the boys whatever they wanted. A small crowd of children had gathered around me, and were looking up at me with big, hungry eyes. "Madame, yum yum?"

"How much for these kids, too?" I asked her.

"Hmmm," she thought, perhaps struggling to choose between the chance to make a killing off a foreigner or help feed the children. "7 dollars."

"7 dollars? For how many kids?" Looking behind me the crowd had grown considerably. I opened up my wallet. All I had was $12 lousy bucks.

"Hmmm...12 kids."

"How many are there here?" I asked, trying to number the beautiful little faces swirling around me. She shouted out numbers in Khmer to the children, checking to make sure no one was counted twice.

"26." She announced when she was sure she had counted right.

"26?!" I frowned. " I have 12 dollars. Look. I swear its all I have!" I showed her my empty change purse, pulling out my pockets.

"Hmmm..." She thought to herself, looking around at the kids.

"How can I choose only 12 of them?" I asked her, with sincere tears welling up in my eyes. (I swear Im not usually this emotional). "You do it. I cant choose."

"Ok. Ok." she smiled after a long silence. "Khmer price. 12 dollars, everyone eats!" Khmer price or not, sounded like a deal to me.

26 of the children from the nearby villages get ready for some yum-yum (^-^)/

Conversations with a Monk

Now meet Sensovesai (with a short guest appearance by Vutha). There is an interesting misunderstanding that takes place near the end of the video, in which I think they are saying men when really they are saying monks. Seems painfully obvious now, but maybe it will help you understand my ridiculous reaction.

Anyways, enjoy! And ignore my increasingly strange-sounding English! Onegaishimasu!

Of Monks and Men

Vutha passed through the faded, honey-and-cream washed walls surrounding the many apartments shared by monks of the nearby pagoda. Three floors high, the simple, beautiful buildings surrounded me like a silent city. Tangerine robes hung from balconies and railings as monks gathered together on porches and verandas, talking, reading, and now, staring at the strange girl stepping lightly into their quiet little world. I smiled, because that is what I do, especially when I'm nervous and dont know what to do. Someone smiled back, and suddenly a chorus of giggled hellos began to rain down from above me. Vutha looked up and laughed, and then back at me. "We don't get visitors often!"

I followed him through his tiny village of brightly colored walls, hung like faded robes, looking all the lovlier for the wear. When it seemed we had wandered through all the secret passageways, we came at last to a thin wall separating their peaceful sancutary from the busy world outside. Vutha stopped in front of "House No. 39" and calmly scaled the scallopped steps fanning out from the narrow door. He disappeared inside the dark room for a moment, popping his head back out to look for me. Unsure if I should follow or wait, I had stopped at the bottom of the steps, nervously looking everywhere but into the darkness. "Ok, come on. Come in."

I climbed the stairs slowly, stopping at the threshold. Vutha was clearing a place for me on a long wooden arm chair. "Come on. Please. Sit here." I stepped shyly into the room, bowing (its a habit) and raising my hands in prayer, as Cambodians do, trying my best to say "Soksabay che te" without sounding as ridiculous as I felt. The other monks scattered about the room stopped for a moment, looking blankly from me to Vutha, then smiled at me and returned my greeting. I sat down very conscious of my movements and appearance, unsure of how to act, but Vutha casually pulled up a chair in front of me and started asking me questions about my life in America and Japan. In a few minutes we were talking and laughing as if we were good friends reunited after a long separation.

In the background, a monk stood sweeping the room, an MP3 player clipped to his shoulder, earphones hidden in his ears. Another sat on the floor behind us, studying. Some had gathered to begin preparing lunch. One by one, the slender silhouettes of young monks appeared in the flood of light streaming through the doorway as they returned from their classes. Many of them smiled saying "Oh! Hello! So, what`s your name? Where are you from? How long have you been in Cambodia?" sitting down to join in the conversation, or simply listen. Soon the long wooden sofa was full and I moved to the floor to ensure a safe distance between us.

Soksopheakdey laughing...

As we sat around laughing, an older monk appeared from a separate room and leaned up against the wall, smoking a cigarette. I was shocked at first to see him smoking, but he looked down at me and smiled kindly. "Soksabay che te" I said, pressing my palms together below my down cast eyes. He smiled and nodded "soksabay," launching into a beautifully melodic stream of Khmer, which turned out to be his complimenting me on my clearly spoken Cambodia and asking how long I had lived in Cambodia. "The Venerable asks your name ." Vutha translated, and I answered. As Vutha later explained, he was the most senior monk in the house and treated with a great deal of respect. After awhile he disappeared back into his room, and the monks began to tell me about their daily life.

Vutha told me that Cambodian monks, like most in southeast Asia, followed Theravada, "The Way of the Elders," the oldest surviving school of Buddhism. At 25 years old, Vutha has been studying Pali, the ancient language of the Theravada's canon, for 8 years. As a monk, he serves his community by presiding over religious ceremonies and providing instruction in basic Buddhist morality and teachings. As a scholar, he dedicates his life to his studies, both religious and secular. He hopes to someday become a teacher of Khmer Literature, and studies both English and Japanese as well.

Vutha also introduced me to another young monk with impeccable English named Sensovesai. His name, he told me, means "I meet you, I am lucky. You meet me, you are lucky." At 21, he has been a monk for 5 years, and is dedicated to studying English and Japanese, despite the fact that he hopes to someday become a singer. "My friends tell me I dance like Micheal Jackson!" He laughed.

Micheal Jackson? That I had to see! Only one problem. As a monk, Sensovesai can't dance, and he can't sing. He isin't even supposed to listen to music.

Monks vow to undertake 10 Precepts, abstaining from: 1) harming or taking life, 2) taking what is not given, 3) sexual misconduct, 4) false speech, 5) using intoxicants, 6) eating after midday, 7) dancing, singing, music, or any kind of entertainment, 8) using garlands, perfumes, unguents and adornments, 9) using luxurious beds or seats, and 10) accepting or holding money.



But whatever the idealized, romantic preconceptions of monks may be, they are just people like you and me. In Cambodia, becoming a monk is sometimes the only way to get an education, fill your stomach and relieve the burden of your family. Very few young men (boys can usually enter the monkhood at the age of 13) become monks with the hopes of living a monastic life forever. There is no stigma attached to leaving the monkhood, and even in House No. 39, a young ex-monk and fellow aspiring singer continued to live just as he always had, among the monks in the monastery. Being ordained as a monk, even for a short time, is thought to be very virtuous. Just taking the vows, regardless of whether or not you keep them, is a virtue.

Vutha brings in the laymen's laundry, as Vesai paruses my trusty travel companion, the JET Diary.

Worried I was imposing on people too polite to tell me to leave, I asked if perhaps I should go so that they could prepare for their next round of classes. "No, no, no, don't worry! Aren't you hungry? You should have something to eat!" Vutha insisted.

By this time, the two young women, (Vutha's sister, and a cusin), had finished preparing the final meal of the day. The monks began to lay mats and gather infront of the buddah shrine, and the venerable emerged from his room carrying a small, low table. "Would you like to eat here?" Vutha asked.

"I would love to, but I don't want to eat all your food! There won't be enough for everyone! That food is for the monks..."

"Oh, there's more than enough. Now, we have to eat. You can't eat with us, but you can wait. And then afterwards you can eat with them (the girls). It is like a blessing for you!"

My western educated mind reeled for a moment. Oh yeah. How blessed! I get to sit and watch you eat, and then, when your finished you will allow us second class citizens to partake of your leftovers. This all shot through my mind in an instant, almost too quickly for me to realize I had thought it. It disappointed me. I would rather believe it was something I was programmed to think than consider it an original thought of my own. The truth is, I did feel greatly blessed: Blessed to have been able to come back to Cambodia, to have met Vutha, to have been welcomed into his home and treated so kindly, and to be invited to eat with them, observing their lifestytle, learning about their culture and taking part in their customs.

"Today the food is very delicious," the Venerable added (translated by Vesai). "You should stay and eat."

Good food? A personal invitation from the Venerable? How could I argue with that?

The girls and I enjoyed our meal, trying to communicate in my non-existent Cambodian, gestures, and smiles. I'm not sure what we we were eating, but it involved fish and was delicious.

Vutha heads off to class.

After lunch Vutha rushed off to bathe before his next round of classes at 1PM. Vesai, who was finished for the day, offered to show me around the temple grounds and accompany me to the National Museum after Vutha left.

As Vutha left for class he asked me to come again when I returned (the next day I planned to head back to Siem Reap and Angkor Wat) and blessed me, wishing me health, happiness and good luck. Vesai headed upstairs to put on his formal robes and we headed out into the temple grounds for my personal tour.

Vesai and I wait out the rain beneath the shelter of a colorful temple pavillion.

We headed back through the muted maze of monk dwellings and out onto noisy (in comparison) streets towards the National Museum. In order to keep the lay people from criticizing him, Vesai asked me to walk behind him until we were in the museum. I understood, and kept my distance, even after entering the museum grounds. " Are you sure its OK for you to talk to me out here?" I asked, concerned I was about to horribly offend the entire Cambodia capital. "No, its ok. In here there are only foreigners. They don't care, I'm sure."

So together we explored the amazing collection of Khmer carving and craftsmanship. Vesai patiently explained the symbolism and context of each of the beautifully carven statues and stellas, and even tried the ancient inscriptions written in a flowing form of Pali. Knowing the Vesai was eager to practice his Japanese, I secretly scoped the scene for a large Asian tour group, straining my ears to hear the languages being spoken all around me. There were many Koreans and Chinese tourists, who traveled in pairs or small groups, but it took awhile before a true Japanese your came through, fluent Japanese guide, flag and all.

I approached them apologetically (as is the custom-- sumimasen!) and began to ask them where they were from. Amazed that I could speak Japanese, they were thrilled to talk to me and try to understand how that could be. Knowing the tour had to be short on time, I introduced Vesai and told them that he,too, was studying Japanese. A chorus of "Eeee! Sugoi!" echoed through the lofty rooms as they tried to converse with the young monk. When it proved more difficult than they had hoped, they turned their attention back to me. The tour guide was a bit kibishii (strict) and urged the group to move along. I offered to take a quick picture, remembering that Vesai had once told me that since he could not travel, it was nice to think at least his picture could.Everyone smiled and shot up the peace sign, except for Vesai, who put on his serious monk face and stood with his hands at his side.

Time was running short for us as well. Vesai asked me to visit when I returned from Angkor, and I promised I would. He headed back towards House No. 39, far ahead of me, and I, overwhelmed by the awesomeness of the day and a creeping sense of sadness that it had to end, turned back to the riverside, where it had all begun.

Meeting a Monk

Once I got the peddles spinning, driving the cyclo was a breeze. I peddled lightly along the riverside at first, slowly making my way through the quiet, colorful backstreets. Other cyclos laughed, giving a me enthusiastic thumbs up and shouting "Good! Oh, very good! Strong!" Motos wizzed by, looking back over their shoulders giggling. I smiled and waved back to people walking or working on the streets, who laughed in disbelief at the sight of me. "Madame, moto? Moto, sir?" I asked as we passed, laughing. My passenger was greeted by almost everyone we saw, and waved and laughed with the rest of us.

After about a half hour, I figured it was time to get some yum-yum (as they say in Khmer). "You, me, yum yum?" I called over his shoulder. "Me?" he asked. I nodded my head enthusiastically, and he motioned for me to make a few turns before we ended up at a small noodle shop packed with Cambodians, spilling out onto the sidewalk, seated at their tiny tables. I amazed everyone by successfully stopping the cyclo, pulling the break and hopping off like a an old pro. Some people even broke into applause.

We quickly seated ourselves on shakey stools, before big bowls of steaming noodles were slid in front of us, garnished with beansprouts, chili sauce and lime. Delicious as they were, I spent very little time eating. A Doctor from the Soviet- Khmer Friendship hospital who worked with HIV patients in a special ward had graciously welcomed me to Cambodia, and we were soon engaged in a thoughtful discussion about his life surviving Pol Pot, the current Cambodian government, and his ambition to someday visit America, "the land of the free, and of opportunity." He invited me to visit his hospital if I had a chance, and gave me his address and phone number before rushing off to work. I quickly slurpped down my noodles, sorry to keep my company waiting. Athough he had finished much sooner, he sat smiling, enjoying his time in the shade. When I hopped back up on the high seat and set off again, I asked him to direct me towards the gracefully curved spires and imacculately layered roof of the terra cotta colored National Museum.

When we arrived near the entrance, I hopped of anf handed the cycling steed back to its rightful owner. After spending only .75 cents on breakfast, I felt compelled to give him something for letting me pimp his ride around town while he could have been finding other buisness. He, of course, had no idea what I was on about, and hopped up on the bike, ready to leave. In a panic I turned to the first person I saw and asked for help... That person just happened to be a monk.

Vutha`s first mistake was smiling kindly at an obviously distressed foreigner. "I`m sorry!" I bowed (its a Japanese thing), "Can you help me? I know you must be busy...Oh my gosh your a monk? Am I even allowed to be talking to you..." My cyclo driver was getting away. "Wait!" I desperately called out after him.

"Its OK!" the young monk laughed, "I speak English!" With a word, he had called the cyclo back. "Now what`s wrong?" he asked. I explained the situation to him and he calmly unttered a few soft words to the cylco driver, who humbley replied. "He said, f you can, give him 2000 Riel so he can get something to eat at lunch."

So little. 2000 Riel is about .50 cents. I handed it to him saying "Awkoon" (thank you in Khmer) and turned back to the monk. "Thank you so much! I`m really sorry to bother you!" I apologized, bowing my head and touching my palms together, as if in prayer.

"Don`t worry!" He smiled. "I`m not busy. So, where are you from?" "I`m from America, but I live in Japan. His face lit up. "Oh"! America! And you live in Japan!" The whole situation seemed a bit too surreal as I stood nervously conversing with this young monk, his bright orange robes complimented by the rich, rusted red of the museum behind him. "Are you busy right now?" he asked. "Me? No! Not busy!" I answered anxiously.

"Well, Would you like to come back to my place?"

"What?!" I laughed, amazed. I realized he had meant it sans-the sleezy connotations so common in American culture, but it still suprised me to hear it from the mouth of a monk. "Um, OK! Wait...Really? Is that OK?"

"Sure!" he said in that soft, reassuring way Cambodians do. He smiled as he stepped past me into the street, looking back over his shoulder. "Come on."

I stood on the corner, convinced I was dreaming, and slowly stepped into the street. Timidly tracing his footsteps, I struggled to leave a respectable amount of distance between us as I followed him towards his wat.

See Where the Day Leads...

It makes sense that since I had been blessed with the hook-up to a river view room, I would magically wake up every morning, just before dawn, in time to watch the sun rise slowly over the pagoda-peaked, palm-treed horizon.

The ever-changing kaliedescope of colors and light, as the dark cool shades of night melted away.No one can accuse me of vanity after posting this! Sleepy-eyed and cheese-faced, from the balcony of my most excellent, albeit impermanent, abode.

The day was young and full of possibilities. I had no idea where it was about to lead me, no expectations of what I would do or see, no place I "had" to go, no schedules, no shackles. I was completely free, and that is always a good thing. (^_<)

I lazily stumbled down the steps from my 4th floor room, through a lobby full of friendly faces, out onto the street. With every step I took I was greated with a chorus of traditional, city-style greetings: "Madame, moto? Moto Madame? Madame, Cylco? Cyclo, madame? " Smiling and shaking my head "no," I skipped across the street, through the trickle of traffic begining to flood the riverfront, and sat down in the sun, soaking it in, the sounds of fishermen speaking Vietnamese floating on the wind.

I waited patiently for the day to reveal itself to me. A brilliant stream of billowing saffron caught my gaze, slowly flowing towards me. The early light of morning, caught in citrus colored, umbrellas glowed in the distance, spilling over onto saffron colored robes like streams of sunlight pouring through stained glass. An ethereal glow seemed to radiate from the round, shaved heads shaded beneath them, like an aura of pure energy. Their bronze-toned, sun-kissed skin was wrapped in robes that echoed the many shades of sunrise still ethched in my mind: golden, crimson, saffron, and tangerine. I watched in awe at the unworldly quality of the scene before me, unable even to fumble for my camera to try to capture it.

I sat there, alone, contemplating how so much beauty can exist in such a cruel and troubled world. "The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."Lost in thought, I began to wander the streets, coming to life with the colors and flavors of Cambodia's capital city.

Have you ever seen so many banannas before? Bunch by bunch, handed down from the truck to the cyclo, hopefully on its way to becoming one of the many delicious fruit smoothies I consumed in a day. Yumm...

A small girl on the side of the road, all alone. She just stood there, looking around, watching people pass her by without a second glance. She didnt beg. She had nothing to sell. She was just there. Alone.

So beautiful. I sat and watched the bananaman for awhile, hoping someone would come and take her hand, and lead her away smiling and skipping down the street. I wish I could've brought her home with me!

Eventually I began to wander again, and that's when I met this guy. Meet Mr.Cyclo. Amount of English spoken: .007 %.

Did I need a cyclo? No. But he needed a passanger, and maybe a bit of breakfast. I tried to explain to him that I didn't need a ride; that I was happy walking around and getting lost. The language barrier, however, was not on my side, and a constant smile does little to discourage the desperate. So I decided to give him a break. "Ok!" I laughed. "Me, cylco! You, here!" I pointed from him to the carriage. He jumped down off his seat grinning. "Ok?" He said, pointing at my legs. "Ok!" I assured him, ushering him to his seat. To the amazement of everyone within viewing distance, I hopped up on the cyclo, ready to speed off, when he hopped out of the seat and ran behind me. I was afraid he had reconsidered allowing a foreigner to drive his precious chariot, at the risk of both his personal saftey and my own, but he simply ran behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, showed me how to release the break, and then gleefully hopped back into his seat. And off we went...

To be Continued....