The Sen Sok Commune comprised of 16 villages is nearly 2 hours away and most of the villages with our Safe Haven kids are only accessible via our big motocross moto bikes.  Unless it’s raining, in which case, we need a boat.  With 16 kids to visit, Roza, Dr. Karen Froud, Pierre and I decided to get an early start.  Karen had originally wanted to bring one of her speech and language graduate students from Columbia University who is here with her but we only own two of the larger motos capable of getting to where we’re going and frankly, I barely fit on the back of one.  Normally, I am stuck sitting on the metal luggage rack but Roza, mindful of the long ride ahead, thoughtfully welding a seat extension on the back.  What it makes up for in comfort, it serious lacks in stability.  I’m perched up pretty high behind him and unless I want to use my knees against the exhaust pipe, I have no way to really grip the bike.  But half of fun of field work is the nearly getting killed while getting there part.

40 minutes outside the city, I’m enjoying the gorgeous greens of the rice fields as they flash by and idly wondering why my calf is feeling so hot.  I’m pretty close to said exhaust pipe so I am figuring it is a discomfort I’m going to have to get used to when I notice Roza is having trouble switching gears and I smell something burning.  He pulls over and we both hop off the bike while Pierre and Karen pull up behind us.  Flames are shooting out of the wheel well.  Our brake has somehow snapped off track and is lodged against the wheel.  The friction has caused the bike to catch on fire.  I spin around and Roza grabs a bottle of water sticking out of the side of my pack and douses the flames.  As it steams and hisses, Roza is dismayed to discover our impromptu fire extinguisher is a bottle of Evian.

“I cannot believe I used the expensive water.  This cost $2!  I should have used the cheap water.”

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The water buffalo sprawled across the small switchback path into the village was supremely indifferent to our plight.  As far as he was concerned, the lovely, sandy path in the sun, surrounded on the sides by lush, green grass was a fine spot for an afternoon siesta and our need to navigate around him was of absolutely no concern to him.  A fact he let us know with a lazy swish of a tail in response to our beeping and enthusiastic yelling.  All our yelling did was induce a bored snort.  I snorted too, but it didn’t have the same effect.

When it was clear the buffalo had no intention of moving out of our way, Roza decided to try and carefully guide the dirt bike around him.  I had visions of tipping over and winding up on the back of the bovine. Or perhaps going right over the top of him and tumbling into the rice paddy next to the patch.  Having been tossed off the back of an elephant into a dung filled river on a previous trip to South East Asia, I had no desire to reenact the experience en route to Trang Village.

With the hectic, crisis filled week in Phnom Penh behind me, I’ve spent the last few days in the field triaging a new group of children with disabilities for our Safe Haven outreach program.  The commute to “work” has been a bitch.  Most of the homes are well off the beaten path on rutted, pitted, dirt roads that can only be considered ‘roads’ in the most generous of spirits.  Frankly, my spirit, lower back and ass were in firm agreement that they were not feeling generous at all.  Our souped up motocross style motor bikes are fantastic for handling the terrain but not so gentle on the body.  Eight hours a day of bouncing around has rattled everything from my teeth to my toes.  Waking up the 2^nd day, every bone in my body felt shaken and stirred, without the benefit of an olive or a suave secret agent.

The visits with the children themselves rattled me in other ways.  So many cases, each one presenting their own challenges.  Yan is 6 years old and she has never spoken.  Physically, she seems healthy but suffers from blinding headaches a few times a month.  She chokes when she drinks water.  Is it dysarthria?  What is causing the headaches?  Migraines? Tumors?  It’s not as if there is a CAT scan machine around the next rice paddy.  Theary is 8 and his legs are twisted.  He can run and play with the other kids as long as he runs on his tip toes, which is the only position in which he can keep his legs straight.  His parents tell me his friends like to hit him and tease him when he cannot keep up, so often, they will let him skip school and work in the rice paddy with them.  We decide to add him to our surgical rotation roster which now has 4 ortho cases, 1 heart case and 1 3^rd degree burn case. A 7^th boy, Loma, at 16 is so badly deformed he is literally curled into a ball, his spine and back so twisted he cannot get out of a crouched position.  His legs are folded underneath him in a stance like a catcher.  Surgically, there is nothing that can be done.  It is severe polio, or he has a neuromuscular disease, such as spinal muscular atrophy.  The best I can aim for is to have our physio therapist work towards uncurling him enough to get him in a wheelchair.

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After a good sulk in my room over my burnt feet, I realized my pity party was kinda boring all on my own and decided I needed some wine and friends to liven the whole thing up.  So I gauzed up my feet, stuffed them into my sneakers and attempted to waltz across the lobby of The Quay hotel as normally as possible.  The overly helpful staff is always looking for a reason to pounce and I wanted avoid any scenes in which I had to explain why I was walking funny.  Unfortunately, my attempts to walk normally just resulted in my looking like I had just ingested some dodgy water and was about to keel over from cramps.  The staff materialized from all sides.  I was surprised one didn’t swoop in from the ceiling all Mission Impossible.  “Madame, are you hurt?  Madame, please sit down!  Madame, do you need help?”  Sadly, none of them said, “Madame, here is a shot of whiskey” So I gamely waved them off , insisted I was just fine and plowed out the door towards Pop’s, a favorite Italian restaurant of mine on the riverfront where my friends Allie, Paula and Pinot Noir would be waiting to for me.

Although it was early evening, the sun was still hot enough to fry a foot on the sidewalk.  It is rainy season in Cambodia right now but thus far on this trip, the rain has been scarce.  Normally, I am not a fan of downpours in Phnom Penh.  The drainage in the city is pretty bad.  Toss in the pollution and garbage on the street and you get a noxious mix of nastiness that floods the area.  But the heat has been oppressive and I’d be willing to put up with a river of poo water just for a little relief.

Within short order, I’ve nuzzled up to a nice glass of Pinot with no idea that 6 hours north of me, the van containing my project manager Roza and my Safe Haven kids and families returning to their villages after our week  at the Children’s Surgical Center has just been caught in a massive rainstorm.  Night has fallen and  the dirt road the van is traveling on has become a dangerous slick of thick mud and visibility has all but disappeared.  The driver overcompensates trying to control the sliding van and loses control.  The van fish tails, flips and crashes into a ditch.

My phone rings….

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In an effort to prove that I am a badass and not a woman on the verge of turning 40, I readily agree to a volleyball match with Charam, Nghan and Peng.  If I was listening to the devil on my shoulder, she would have been cluing me in that it was easily over 100 degrees, I am not as nimble as 17 year old boys and I am blazingly white skinned.  There wasn’t an angel on the other shoulder. She was off somewhere in the shade.  I ignored the little voice and slipped off my shoes for good measure.  Why not?  The boys were barefoot.  AND I am badass.

Amazingly, not only did I not pass out from heat stroke, Charam and I actually won the game.  My prize?  A nicely burned right foot which was blistering even as I grinned and slapped hive fives all around.  Never have I ever been so grateful for the lunch bell.  The boys hugged me goodbye and I promised them I would be back to visit tomorrow.  As soon as they were all out of sight, I hobbled to the nearest Tuk Tuk and collapsed inside.  My poor, throbbing foot was letting me know it was not impressed with my badass self.  I surveyed the damage from the privacy of my hotel room.  The entire bottom of my right foot was a red and puffy, fluid filled blister.    The left was a little better off, only the ball of my foot and big toe were blistered. Honestly, I could kick myself  if my feet didn’t hurt so damn much.  What the hell was I thinking?  I dunked my abused body parts into a luke warm tub, heartily wishing for cold water, an amenity not currently boasted about by my hotel.  This is what I get for winding up with free time on my hands and an insatiable competitive streak.

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By 7:30am, there is already close to 100 people milling about the outside of the Children’s Surgical Center compound waiting for the facilities to open.  Roza, my project manager, pulls up in our borrowed van with my Safe Haven families in tow.  Von Sao, a serious, quiet 8 year old girl with bilateral club feet has been accompanied by her father.  Veng Von,  a 6 year old boy, is all laughter and curiosity.  His knee is completely backwards.  It looks and hinges normally, it’s just simply pointing in the wrong direction.  He scampers about with an ease that is hard to credit when you look at his leg.  As Pierre, one of my colleagues, and I watch, he gives us a grin and then bends his leg up to his face.  His mother is with him and she gives him a playful swat.

Roza tells us that everyone had trouble sleeping in the guest house we rented for the families last night.  Apparently the parents and kids, so used to sleeping on the floor of an open walled hut could not get comfortable in beds inside an enclosed room.  It was so foreign, they simply could not rest.  Von Sao is also registers her complaint about the amenities: the guest house TV is black and white and she is not impressed.  Even in her hut with no walls in the middle of a village outside Siem Reap, she can at least see cartoons in color.  City life is not living up to her expectations.  I slip her a candy to ease the disappointment.

I suspect part of the exhaustion they are all feeling all stems from the frightening unknowns looming ahead of us.  None of these parents or their kids have ever ventured outside their villages before.  The 7 hour drive in a van was not a pleasant journey with both kids getting car sick.  Now we are sitting outside in the sun waiting for our number to be called to see one of the doctors who will consult on their surgery.  Pierre and I distract the kids with our IPADS and then ruthlessly use our connections to get upstairs into the offices where Eric, one of the western administrators, meets with us.  I have been emailing Eric for months setting up these appointments and try not to feel guilty about using these connections to get our kids bumped to the top of the line.  Within minutes, Eric makes arrangements for us to get X-Rays ahead of our consultation, saving us hours of waiting.

We’ve explained to the children and their parents that X Rays are special pictures allowing the doctors to see the bones inside the body.  The kids are loathe to give up their Ipad games in favor of trudging inside to get the X Rays but another piece of candy solves seals the deal.  Thank God I bought a huge bag of it, because every time I hand one to Von or Sao, I’ve got a half dozen other little kids eyeballing me.  We are bustled down the hall towards the X Ray chamber by the technician.  It looks a lot like a mad scientist’s chamber from a bad 80’s B movie.  They take Sao in first and push the rest of us 15 feet down the hall for “safety”.  The old X Ray machine cranks and groans.  Pierre and I half expect a green light to start glowing out of the top of the chamber.  This thought is further reinforced by the envelope I am handed to hold the X Rays which reads “Nuclear Medicine.”  I move a few more feet down the hall from the chamber and hope Pierre doesn’t want to father children someday.

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“Hee-ther, do you want an ice cream sandwich?”

When it is over 100 degrees and dripping with humidty, the thought of a icy cold treat was more than tempting, dodgy dairy products aside.  Then Charam actually held up the ice cream sandwich.    A large, melting scoop of vanilla nestling lovingly between a white bread sandwich roll.  Talk about taking and eating things literally.  Since I prefer my sandwich rolls with some sort of carnivore lover’s product and mustard, I passed on the Cambodian version of a Klondike Bar.  Apparently, I had answered the popular marketing jingle “what would I do for one” in resounding fashion.  Apparently, nothing at all.

I had spent a nice day upon arriving in Phnom Penh decompressing from the long flight by bringing my doc kids to the local arcade for the afternoon, followed by a little shopping .  I’ve been here less than 24 hours and already the kids are fretting about when I am leaving.  Layseng, the queen of the guilt trip, says the fact I am here for 3 weeks doesn’t count since I am only in Phnom Penh for 1 week.  Which is NOT long enough for her mother to make me Anson cake, conveniently forgetting she has know about this trip for 6 weeks.  I assure both her and Nghan that I will visit their families in the morning.  The last trip to Cambodia, I was not able to visit my doc families living in Stung Meanchy, the city garbage dump, because my plane had made an emergency landing in Japan in the middle of the horrific earthquake, delaying my arrival by 2 days.

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After a brief internal debate weighing the side effects of the malaria pills against, say, actually getting malaria, I sallied forth from my humble abode where I’d been busily not packing and made my way over to the Healthy Traveler in Pasadena.  Any hope I had of simply scampering in for my weird dreams in a bottle were dashed when the cheery doctor in charge perused my records and announced many of my vaccinations that I had gotten shot up with nearly 6 years ago when I started filming Small Voices were past their expiration date.  Hurrah.  “Let’s look at this together ” he said chummily as we reviewed my vaccination record.  “Your Typhoid and Tetanus are due and you never had your 3^rd round of Hepatitis A and B. Hmmmm, why did we do that?”

Well, I certainly knew.  Six years ago when I was getting shot up like an addict to the tune of $1100 for all kinds of fun things like protection against Japanese Encephalitis, getting the 2^nd round of the Hep A & B shots offered protection for five years.  Even though the 3^rd round would give me lifetime protection, I had already spent a LOT of money and at the time I was thinking five years was a long long time, I’d be done with film and how often would I be popping back to Cambodia anyway?

Famous last words.

With a sigh, I offered up my poor arm for a new round of shots and my poor wallet for the privilege.   Good times.  The doctor tried to scare another $300 out of me with a little bedtime horror story about rabies.  I swore I’d stay away from foaming dogs and monkeys, grabbed my malaria pills and scurried out the door before he started pushing Yellow Fever.

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In July, we are excited to welcome our new physiotherapist Yos Pheakdey who will be overseeing Safe Haven’s physical therapy outreach
program.  Two of Safe Haven’s outreach program students will be having life altering corrective orthopedic surgery.   Stay tuned for blogs from my upcoming three week trip.