Beautiful video of Phnom Penh

One of the greatest things about traveling is missing a place you’ve been and wanting to return.

What not to do while renting an apartment abroad

This is my friend Andre.

Everyone, say hello to Andre.

He is a 6’8” barrel of fun and it’s too bad he’s South African or else we would both be awkward American travelers. He’s had the same good fortune of finding himself ass deep in awkwardness for the majority of his life, too.

We met and it’s been chaos ever since.

A few weekends ago, Andre and I were having a relaxing evening watching episodes of Friends—from the complete season I purchased for $15, only in Cambodia—and drinking Bailey’s. He likes to keep in touch with his feminine side and I told him I would never tell anyo—oops.

After too much laziness, we decided to stretch our legs at the bar around the corner. The events that followed can only be described by Andre, who has now had sufficient time to recover, so I’ll let him tell the story. Take it away Andre:

Last weekend I was hanging out at my friend’s house, which was followed by an evening of drinks. At the end of the night I needed to pick up my guitar and moto helmet from her place before I went home, but as we were walking up her stairs I realized that there was no way I was gonna be able to drive ten minutes to my house and make it inside before I took a shit. So I casually told her I needed to use her bathroom and proceeded to the spare. Now I have long legs and she has her washing machine in that bathroom so, needless to say, things were a little tight. But since I was at the point of no return, well, when you gotta go . . .

While perched there I thought that I could just nudge the machine a little out of the way, but as I pushed it the water pipe burst off the wall and sprayed a massive stream of water square in my face. So there I was with water flowing out of the wall into my face at a rate of knots and I was still mid shit.

Knock at the door. Perfect.

“Is everything OK in there?”

“Uhh, not really. Your pipe burst.”

“Can I come in?”

“Uhh, not really.”

I then managed to get my thumb to slightly stop the water. With my thumb on the pipe, my pants around my ankles and the bathroom now an inch deep in water I considered jumping into the toilet and flushing myself. I’d take my chances in the sewers of Phnom Penh. As the water works continued I realized my plan for escape was wasting time so I leapt into action and with one really foul swoop managed to wipe my arse, get my pants up and fling the door open.

Emerging like a drowned rat, I wiped the dampness from my glasses and started looking for the water shut off valve. After hunting every nook and cranny I was still unable to locate the water main. Dejected and soaked, I admitted defeat and my friend had to call her land lady to come upstairs at four in the morning and shut off the water, which had now overtaken most of the kitchen. Up she came, wading through the war zone, and went straight to the tap and turned it off. It happened to be directly under the toilet which, at that moment, wasn’t a place I was gonna risk putting my face near.

So there I was, soaking wet and feeling like the worlds biggest asshole. As my friend handed me my things she politely said, “Next time you need to shit, do it at your own house,” and escorted me out the door.

***

My landlady has yet to forgive me for this so it’s only fair to give everyone a glimpse of soggy Andre.

We’re still friends, though maybe not after this post.

Holy sh*t, I live in Cambodia

Walking down street 178 today, I zoned out and didn’t notice anything. I walked by the tuk tuk drivers on the corner, the waiters at Pink restaurant wearing red polos, and the construction workers by my apartment. They didn’t offer me a ride, a menu, or a whistle. I’ve been harassed by them every day, but today they didn’t notice me either.

It’s official. I live here.

I have been in Phnom Penh for almost three months and living in my apartment for two. I could have that reflection post where I say all the things I’ve learned or that I can’t believe how fast it’s gone by, but I’ll summarize with: holy shit, I live in Cambodia!

Yeah, it’s extreme, but it really seems crazy. In September, I lived in New York and worried that I’d be unemployed and living with my parents the rest of my life, but now I just worry all day about getting run over by motos. See? My life is so easy now.

But really, it’s like moving to any new city where you’re obviously a foreigner and you can’t understand what anyone is saying. Scary and lonely at first, but slowly you make friends—yes, Andre, I’ll include you here—and find the places and things that make you happy.

My street makes me happy.

Walk with me.

Muay roi jet sup pram bai. Yeah, that's 178 in Khmer.

Just another day carving squiggles into signs next to life-size Buddha buddies.

Part I: The Ebony Apsara Cafe.

Part II: Coconut Fish. Quite possibly my favorite dinner and restaurant in Phnom Penh.

Widdle away, Mister Widdlers.

Thank you, Romeet, for having beautiful art and making it only $11. I will have one of everything.

We will take a brief interlude from joking to highlight Daughters of Cambodia, a spa/restaurant/gift shop dedicated to helping female trafficking victims.

The National Museum, but who doesn't have one of those?

Shout out to all my peeps at SCAD. I managed to live next door to the Cambodian equivalent. Feels like home.

If you would like the full, guided tour please visit me.

An English teacher’s day in Cambodia

My aunt and uncle have a rule about complaining: you only get one whinge per day.

So, if you stub your toe before you even get out of bed in the morning, you can have yourself a little cry, but that’s it. You’re done for the day. Even if you then leave your house, fall down the stairs, cross the street and get hit by a child riding a bicycle,  miss the bus to work because you were too busy yelling at the child, get fired because you’ve been late too many times, drink heavily for the rest of the day and fall up the stairs going home, and stub your toe getting back into bed.

You have to pick just one.

My whinge today is teaching.

I know, I know, all teachers complain about teaching. The kids are brats, there are so many papers to grade, the administration is always all up in yo’ grill, blah blah blah. You know what I have to say to that? They speak English!

To make matters worse, it is a cultural habit here to always respond with a nod when asked a question. Do you know where this address is? Nods yes. Do you have change for a five? Nods yes. Can I steal your tuk tuk? Nods yes.

I never get a response with the I-don’t-understand expression when I ask them to point to mom in the picture. It’s just a nod—I hear the words coming out of your mouth—which makes me count to ten and do breathing exercises frequently so I don’t shake the children violently and cry myself to sleep at night.

Now you can add in the teacher complaints of dealing with crying six-year-olds, that one kid who won’t ever shut up, and their unbelievable ability to cheat on everything.

If it weren’t for my schedule, I think I’d lose my mind.

6:30 am: Wake up. Or at least move my body from the sleeping position to standing. Actually waking up happens around 8 am.

7:00 am: After yawning, showering, yawning, and getting dressed I make an egg sandwich and have a little rest. (Yes mom, I take my vitamin every day).

7:20 am: Go to the street where my moto driver is waving and saying good morning. He’s great. Every morning he takes me to Modern International School and every afternoon he takes me home. I pay him $8 a week. You can bet he’ll be getting a good Christmas present.

8:00 am: Finally awake in time for my first class. 24 kindergarteners. We’re studying from a book called Number Magic. They all already know how to count to 1,000 and magic is frowned upon here, so I’d say it’s an effective learning device.

9:00 am: Same grade, different class. Except I’m pretty sure every one of these kids could be diagnosed with ADHD. At no point is everyone sitting in a seat—they are like whack-a-mole, one sits down and another one gets up to wander—and by Thursday I lose my voice from telling them to sit down and do their work.

10:00 am: 31 preschoolers. One teacher’s assistant. And a kid who I can only politely describe as an ass hole. He’s smarter than the other kids and about four years older, so he flies through his work and begins his next task of terrorizing the teacher.

He started this new routine of putting on his backpack midway through class and pretending to leave, saying, “Bye Teachaa.” He throws me his shittiest smile and waltzes toward the door. The TA yells something in Khmer about breaking his knee caps and then he runs back to his desk to sulk.

11:00 am: Hop on the moto and close my eyes for the fifteen minute ride home. I close them partly because of exhaustion and partly because this is peak traffic time and I’d have an anxiety attack if I watched all of the accidents we narrowly avoided.

11:15 am – 5:00 pm is my saving grace period. I usually eat lunch, go for a run around the Royal Palace or do yoga at home, write a little, catch up on reading, eat dinner, and walk to ELT—the university where I teach night classes.

5:25 pm: I have my oldest class of 6B students, which is the equivalent to seniors in high school. I love teaching this class because they’re almost fluent and really funny.

This past Friday our topic was gossiping and rumors so we played telephone to show how rumors spread and change. It got them practicing listening and speaking, and they cracked up when the rumors I started were about someone in the class liking someone else.

6:30 pm: Last class of the night and it’s high school freshman. They think they’re all that and a bag of chips. But they’re smart. And they love pop culture, so I get to hear about how amazing Justin Bieber is every day. I’ll admit it, though, they’re pretty good kids.

7:30 pm: Walk home and make dinner.

8:30 pm: Do a little lesson planning for the next day.

9:30 pm: Check emails and Facebook stalk.

10:00 pm: Get ready for bed and read (I’m as nerdy as they come).

10:30 pm: Lights out.

Alright, so I guess this vent session made me realize how easy I have it. I only work five hours a day—that’s 25 hours a week for all you mathmagicians out there—and I still make enough to pay rent, save a little, eat well, have a couple adult beverages with friends, and get a weekly $4 pedicure/massage.

As we say here daily, “Only in Cambodia.”

TGIF Cambodia style

I don’t live in a hut, I’m not eating bugs, and I do normal things on the weekend—maybe walking around with monks and seeing police officers sleeping in hammocks isn’t normal, but aside from that, Phnom Penh is pretty much like any other city.

Take this past weekend for example:

Last Friday night (thank you, Katy Perry, for not allowing me to say that without getting your song stuck in my head) we were dancing rocking out on Diamond Island (Koh Pich) to Dengue Fever. To clear up any initial confusion, the name of the headlining band was Dengue Fever, it was not a party for a viral disease.

I hadn’t heard of these guys before that morning’s uproar in the teachers’ lounge, but everyone was talking about how great this band was and getting tickets. If everyone was splurging on $10 tickets, splurging ha, then I figured they were worth seeing.

Plus, I found out the proceeds went to Cambodian Living Arts, an organization dedicated to preserving and promoting the arts in Cambodia.

That, my friends, is the definition of a win win.

So, I went down to Java Cafe on Sihanouk, got a ticket, and six hours later watched the opening band of the night.

Their name was in Khmer because they were a traditional Khmer band, so let’s just call them Traditional Khmer Band. The drummers and singers were on stage while the dancers performed in the first few rows of the audience.

I’m not a huge fan of Khmer music, too whiney sounding, but the dancers were interesting to watch. They have specific hand positions for each pose, and they’re so graceful when they change positions. With the rhythm from the drums, it was very entrancing.

The announcers introduced the next artist as the Ray Charles of Cambodia. I’m guessing it’s because he’s blind. And he’s a beast at playing his instrument.

Pseudo Ray (actual name Ta Kong Nay) and another Khmer guy jammed together for what seemed like the coolest fifteen minutes everrr. Such a different sound from not only the instruments, but also their vocals made me remember why I love traveling.

And so did the next band.

I give these guys credit for scaring the shit  out of their grandmas, but an Asian heavy metal band really tickled me. As I was assessing the damage in the audience, I noticed the Khmer people–who are taught to be quiet—had the most pained expressions.

Possibly from these guys’ dye-jobs, but most likely because they’d never heard someone screaming like the devil into a microphone and calling it music. I can’t begin to judge the talent it takes to ruin your vocal chords, but a friend informed me that they were no Slip Knot.

In typical Cambodian fashion, at ten o’clock (the supposed ending time of the show) Dengue Fever took the stage.They’re an L.A. based band with a female, Cambodian lead singer, playing 60’s-style American rock with Khmer-style vocals.

Bizarre. But they were awesome.

OK, so this wasn’t exactly a normal American Friday night, but that’s why I’m here, right?