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Out with a bang in Cambodia

May 20, 2011

My friend Angie and I had just finished a visit to the Killing Fields in Phnom Penh — acres of rural property where Cambodian people were slaughtered and tossed into mass graves by the Khmer Rouge communist regime.

Some people were beheaded. Some were bludgeoned to death with bamboo sticks. Some were buried alive, tossed into pits and covered with DDT until they perished.

It’s a miserable place, swamped by sadness and cluttered with ghosts.

Angie and I paid our respects to the many lives that were extinguished. We left quiet. We left reverent.

It was unusual timing for such a visit. Osama bin Laden had been killed the previous evening, and I was waging a nonstop, complicated moral war in my head. “Does anyone deserve a violent death? What if the person is really, really evil? Who decides what is evil? Is assassination ever justified? Does this make the world safer? What motivates someone to do horrific things?”

Basically, I was in a confused, plaintive headspace.

As my friend and I climbed into the tuk-tuk we hired, just outside the gates of the Killing Fields, our driver pushed a laminated sheet of photos toward us. It was pictures of people happily shooting automatic weapons.

“You want to shoot? You want guns?” he said.

“Uh, no.” We both shook our heads.

“No guns?”

“No. Definitely no.”

Maybe the other people who visit this memorial want to vent their frustration with the world. Maybe the other tourists are gun-happy. Maybe it’s just a matter of proximity — after all, the shooting range is nearby.

But firing off machine guns was the very last thing I wanted to do.

It’s definitely a highlight for some travelers in Phnom Penh. I talked to backpackers who were absolutely itching to get their hands on some combat shotguns. I even met a few people who made a detour to Cambodia specifically for the purpose of firing off Uzis and M-16s.

I didn’t think it was a big deal. I’ve rented automatic weapons before in Las Vegas (during a Valentine’s Day getaway with my husband! awww!), and I don’t like guns much anyway. But the firearms probably prove irresistible for tourists who have no access to AK-47s in their own countries.

That said, the shooting ranges in Southeast Asia go far beyond anything I’ve seen before. In Phnom Penh, they don’t only offer guns — the menu also includes hand grenades, single-shot M79 grenade launchers and shoulder-fired B40 rocket-propelled grenades.

Whoa.

To be clear, my friend and I didn’t go to this place. But I talked to dozens of backpackers who returned either raving or ranting about their experiences. The things they’ve told me are so crazy, I don’t know what to believe.

The range has fixed per-bullet prices for the machine guns. Grenades cost between $100-200, depending on your weapon of choice.

If you’re bored with shooting at cardboard, tin cans and rusty cars, live animals make for more lively targets. I’m told chickens, geese, goats, water buffalo and cows have all been slaughtered by beer-guzzling, gun-wielding travelers. Technically, this has been discouraged by the government, but it still happens. For the right price, of course.

I also talked to one guy who said he scraped the bottom of his savings account to buy a $100 grenade and a live cow. Well, he missed the shot — and ended up with a souvenir cow to take home. (He did buy it, after all.) He ended up selling the cow back to the shooting range for half the price he originally paid.

The most disturbing rumors involve people — living, breathing targets who cost a cool $10,000. Allegedly the prisoners offer themselves up to be killed because their families receive a cut of the money. For desperate prisoners facing life sentences with no other means to support their loved ones, this is one last sacrifice they can make.

It’s so outlandish, I can’t believe people could pay to shoot other people. That couldn’t possibly happen, right? It has to be a stupid backpacker tall tale.

Then again, there are a lot of horrific things I can’t wrap my head around. And those were true.

In need of support

May 18, 2011

I am waist deep in brassieres.

The shopkeeper thrusts more and more lacy lingerie my way, while pulling from a Jenga tower of ribbons, tulle and silk that threatens to engulf us both.

I knew it was a mistake to go bra shopping at the market in Hanoi.

Still, I have no other option. I’ve been traveling for 11 months with the same two bras. They are utilitarian. One black, one nude. They are not pretty.

Over time, the nude bra has received considerably more wear and tear. It was stained after sharing the wash with Thai pants that leaked blue dye. It is literally falling apart at the seams. It smells like a musty gym sock, thanks to a laundromat that stuffed my clothes into a plastic bag before they were fully dry. I no longer want it close to my skin.

So I was seduced by the layers of pretty lace at the market. But the shopkeeper doesn’t understand that I am a well-endowed woman.

She doesn’t speak English. I don’t speak Vietnamese.

She hands me bras that look like wispy handkerchiefs, bras so flat they are practically concave, and push-up bras with sacks of saline strategically positioned in each cup. I can’t wear those.

I point to my chest. I cup my hands in front and make a sinking gesture with my palms. “Big,” I say. “Very big.”

The woman nods. She pulls out more bras. She tosses them my way in rapid succession, like a blackjack dealer who works in underwear instead of cards.

Some of them are horrifically ugly in rhinestoned florals, garish crimson with gold sequins, cartoon characters. Some of them still have no chance of fitting around my frame.

I point to my chest again. “Very big,” I say. “Big like mango.”

A small crowd has formed now. They have come from the nearby perfume stalls, the shoe stalls, the purse stalls. They are gaping at the weird white lady who keeps grabbing herself, hoisting her boobs into the air, yelling, “Bigger!”

She nods. We go through the whole thing again. More bras, none that will ever fit. All of them have tags that say A. I scribble down letters for the shopkeeper. C? D? Z?

After searching the recesses of her stall, a look of calm washes over the shopkeeper’s face. She plops down pretty white lace with cups as big and round as Vietnamese soup bowls. She nudges it my way.

“Try,” she says.

So I try. There is no dressing room, so I have to stretch the bra over top my brown dress.

I strike a pose and model it for the crowd. A handful of people clap. Success.

Next comes the dance where we haggle over the price. However, after rummaging through 400 bras and finding only one that works, there is little room for negotiation. I want that bra, and the shopkeeper knows it.

I walk away with a $7 bra and a load off my chest.

Can I get a wat wat?

May 14, 2011

As a writer, there’s nothing more humbling than Cambodia’s Angkor Wat and the complex of surrounding temples.

A million feet have already walked these stoney paths, and a million mouths have uttered the only thing that really needs to be said: Wow.

The complex of wats is massive. It’s magical. It’s striking. It’s stirring.

It’s … wow.

Words actually fail me.

Karmic relief

May 13, 2011

It’s easy to get Buddha fatigue in Southeast Asia. The temples become routine, the gilt gets old, and eventually even The Awakened One puts you to sleep.

Sukhothai is the cure.

Once the capital of the Siam empire, the ancient kingdom is often overlooked by travelers in a rush to get from Bangkok to Chiang Mai.

I had some time to kill before a friend was scheduled to arrive in Bangkok, so I penciled in a couple days in the city known as the “Dawn of Happiness.” I didn’t do any research about the place. I had no expectations. I just rolled into town, checked into a cheap hostel and rented some wheels.

Check out my sweet ride.

With a poorly photocopied map in hand, I put my mettle to the pedal and rode directly into the thick, warm sock of Thai humidity. Though Sukhothai is home to more than 190 temples, my first stop was Big-Ass Buddha. (Not the official name.)

I still can’t say what attracted me to this particular Buddha. I just knew I had to see it. And I had to get there before busloads of tourists arrived.

I got lucky. When I parked my bike, nobody else was there.

It was silent.

I’m not ashamed to say I cried as I approached the statue.

Have you ever seen something so powerful in its beauty, it’s like you’ve never opened your eyes before? That was this Buddha.

I spent about a half hour there in silence. Then a truckload of Germans arrived, and I pulled my bike off the rack, turned around and moved on — fulfilled.

Border patrol

May 10, 2011

The overland border between Thailand and Cambodia is legendary among travelers. Not because of the landmines that still line the region. Not because of the deadly border conflict that has flared up over disputed territory. But because the scams here are as plentiful as noodles.

I had read all the blogs and horror stories. I knew what I was supposed to do:

1. Take the bus from Bangkok to Aranyaprathet, the Thai border town.

2. At the bus stop, get a taxi or tuk-tuk to the border.

3. Go through immigration.

4. Take a taxi or bus to Siem Reap.

Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. At the “Scambodia” border crossing, everything is not what it seems.

My friend and I boarded a nice, air-conditioned bus departing from Bangkok. After about an hour, the bus stopped. We were shepherded onto another, far crappier vehicle.

The bus dropped us off several kilometers from the border, forcing us into hiring a tuk-tuk. Instead of immigration, he brought us to a diner. “This is where you fill out papers,” he said. We shook our heads no and refused to get out of the vehicle.

I said we want to go to the border. No more stops. Just the border.

The driver brought us to a Cambodian embassy building. It didn’t feel right — I’ve never been to a border crossing yet where you get the visa for the next country before exiting the first country — but the driver insisted this was the way. The building looked official, with a tall fence, guard post and the big gold seal of Cambodia.

Inside two men were playing chess.

They said a visa would cost $40. I pointed out that the visa is actually $20. One man shrugged and said, “Well, you’ll have to go to the border for THAT visa.” I wanted to scream, “So where the eff am I?”

He never looked up from the chessboard.

Back inside the tuk-tuk, the driver finally took my friend and I to the border. There was one line. Then another line. One form. Then another form. One stamp. Then another stamp.

We made it to Cambodia!

But the fun didn’t stop there. All tourists are taken by the government-run bus to a travel depot where the buses and taxis are double the price. This is really the only option for transportation, other than hitching a ride in a dusty pickup on a long, bone-jarring road.

When my friend and I arrived at 3 p.m., all the buses were conveniently gone for the day. Only expensive taxis remained, and we were forced into paying $15 each for a ride to Siem Reap.

In the big scheme of things, we didn’t part with too much money. It’s just exhausting and annoying to have so many people rip you off over and over again. Experiences like this make me grumpy, combative and distrustful — the exact opposite of the kind of traveler I try to be. It’s even more infuriating when the government(s) know this is happening and don’t do anything to stop it.

The biggest loss was our time. All of this sucked 12 hours out of our day, when it should have taken just six or seven.

Maybe this is how the border war started.

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