Post Production Blogs
March 2009

Thai Massages, Lady Boys and Other Reasons To Love Bangkok

Thai airlines must have missed the memo encouraging obscure luggage fares, shoddy service and projecting an air of generosity while handing out bags of peanuts. While spending the better part of 17 hours on a plane may not be my first choice when it comes to weekend entertainment, Thai certainly made the experience ~ dare I say ~ reasonably enjoyable. Seats that were not designed to force you into an obscure yoga position, a thick comforter and pillow for everyone (though it did eliminate that fun free for all past time where passengers wrestle each other for the flimsy coverings normally dropped on every third seat or so). Every seat was equipped with a touch screen entertainment monitor with enough movies, television and video games to turn me into a teenage boy. And best of all three edible meals to be selected from an honest to goodness MENU while attendants ran up and down the aisle practically non stop offering wine, cognac, water, juice and coffee. Thai is clearly unconcerned with disgruntled passengers committing mutiny since they casually also dumped large sets of shiny, sharp stainless silverware on us at each repast. Now I normally don’t need three different forks and knives while eating at home, so I certainly wasn’t about to start 30,000 feet in the air. However, it was reassuring to know you could arm yourself fairly decently if a skirmish ever broke out.

In practically less than a day (i.e. four movies, 3 books, several television shows and a ill advised round of Super Mario Brothers later) I sallied forth off the plane into the bustling humid metropolis of Bangkok, a city that makes Los Angeles look like a poster child for clean air. In no time at all, my friend John and I found ourselves checking in at our hotel, The Shangri La and grateful to find they had accommodations ready for us despite our arrival at such an early hour. In fact, if there is something this hotel prides itself on, it is accommodation. While $180 a night in the States may score you something along the lines of a Marriot with a free continental breakfast and pre made eggs, here at the Thailand Shangri La, a posh five star hotel on the river they provide you with your very own butler. Having stayed at this hotel on business many times, the hotel prides itself on always giving me the same butler, who has a stalker like ability to remember every detail about me. While I can’t deny it was lovely to have her knock on my door shortly after arrival with a fresh pot of coffee, Thai fruit and a croissant, it was a bit unnerving that she remembered I drink my coffee black, am allergic to bananas and asked after my colleague, BY NAME, that I had traveled with on a previous trip. But who am I to argue? After freshening up in a bathroom I could only dream of living in, John and I met for breakfast and decided that our jetlagged condition warranted a day of basically spoiling ourselves while exerting as little energy as possible.

We hopped on an express boat to The Oriental downriver. A famed Bangkok hotel once a favorite spot with such illustrious writes as Joseph Conrad and Noel Coward, The Oriental has a secluded outdoor balcony where one can sip excellent scotches and cognacs while puffing on an assortment of fine Cuban cigars. I sat there feeling like Hemmingway (minus the suicidal tendencies) and watched the various boats careen and crash through the choppy river with little regard for each other. After this very taxing activity, John and I made our way to The Oriental’s Spa for Thai massages with hot oil. (I know, it is very difficult being me). A delicate, silk clad Thai woman lead me to a private room and proceed to give me a tour of the dressing area, private bath, steam shower, teak appointed vanity with amenities and plush massage room with a garden view. I briefly wondered if I was getting a massage or renting an apartment. How long did they think I was staying anyway?

Two hours later, feeling fairly stupefied from the effects of the massage and jetlag, we made our way back to the hotel in time for one of the most fascinating rituals of Bangkok culture ~ Lady Boy Ballroom Dancing. Every Sunday at the Shangri La from 3-6pm in a gorgeously appointed ballroom, a spectacular tea and buffet is served. Floating gracefully out on the floor are May-December couples unlike any other. Older women, mostly over the age of 65 are each dancing with their favorite Lady Boys: Impeccably dressed young gay men with razor cut, styled hair, bleached white smiles, delicately rouged cheeks and massacred eyes. They commandeer the floor with a grace and agility far more entertaining than Dancing With The Stars. John and I do our best to cover a variety of deadly sins: Envy, Sloth, Gluttony and Greed as we admire the dancers and stuff ourselves with wine and tasty hors de vors. There is something surreal about being in Bangkok listening to a tuxedoed band strike up a feisty rendition of Edelweiss while Lady Boys and their senior citizen partners trip the light fantastic and compete with each other for the approving eyes of the spectators. While I was observing one such couple and mussing to John that no one over sixty should wear a skin tight metallic and black outfit with 4 inch high heel white leather boots, said dancer caught me watching and she and her disco clad Lady Boy proceeded to stake out a spot in the floor in front of us and show off their most impressive dips, twirls and lifts. Needless to say we were suitable impressed, white boots notwithstanding and I can only hope I am that flexible in 30 years.

It’s been an interesting first day and being up for well over thirty hours has starting to take its toll. Time for an early night and an anticipation of what tomorrow may bring.

Spitting In The Wind

 Although the flight from Bangkok to Siem Reap is only an hour – the distance traveled emotionally is a distance that is hard to quantify. Already the plush luxury of the Shangri La Hotel is fading and ready to take up permanent residence during my stay in Cambodia in that cozy little nook in my brain called Western Privilege Guilt. John and I take a taxi to our hotel, The Shinta Mani. It is by far the nicest hotel I have ever stayed at in Cambodia. The hotel manager welcomes John warmly – she has been acting as a coordinator for him during the last year as he prepares to launch his new non-profit venture CFI or the Coalition for Financial Independence. The goal of the program is to change the lives of impoverished families by giving them the means to become self sufficient through improved farming, wells and creative business ventures, such as village production of mosquito nets. I’ve come to Siem Reap with John as a media consultant for the project before I head to Phnom Penh in a few days to visit the kids from my documentary Small Voices. Almost immediately, I realize this is no ordinary hotel. Profits from the hotel fund an attached trade school, which is currently training 30 impoverished students in culinary arts and business management. After a rigorous 15 month training program, the hotel then provides job placement and lifetime support to each student and his/her family. If they ever lose their job for any reason, the hotel will take them back under their wing and provide for them until another type of employment can be found. I’m deeply impressed with the tour of the trade school and the fact that the benefits stemming from the cost of my room have lasting effects long after I am gone.

It isn’t long before John and I have piled into the hotel’s van along with Trina, our Cambodian guide for a quick trip out to the village to check on a family who had a well installed about six months ago. Rainy season has passed and the evidence of this clouds up around us as we bounce down the dusty, dry tracks that are so whimsically referred to as a ‘road’. Cambodia is not much for traffic laws or anything so mundane as ‘right of way’ so its always an adventure vying for space along with moto bikes, bicycles, water buffalo and naked village children. I stare out the window at the familiar vestige of ramshackle huts, sparse, dead crops, starving livestock and scores of aimless children of all ages.

When we finally arrive at our destination, it doesn’t take us long to find out that the fortunes of the family, despite the well, have nose-dived and not for the better. The mother was taken away to a hospital in the city several months before with TB in her lungs and bones. For the last 8 weeks, her 13-year-old daughter has been living alone on their tiny farm plot caring for her 8 year old brother and 5-year-old sister. The father died several years ago and the children have not seen their mother since she went to the hospital, over an hour away by car. They are gathered around a large outdoor cooking pot tossing in ears of corn from their small crop. The kids are shy and at once fascinated with John and I. I take some digital pictures and then show them to the kids. They delight in seeing themselves appear each time on the view finder and the 13 year old de facto mother is a gracious hostess, bring John and I ears of corn steaming from the pot. Her brother’s lungs sound like a diesel in low gear. He’s got a deep, rumbling cough. Remembering that we had passed a village health clinic about 2 miles back, we ask Trina if we can bring the boy there. It takes some time to try and explain our intentions to the children. Their language skills are limited at best – none of them are in school. Thankfully, a young woman walks up to the property – it is their mother’s sister. She stops in occasionally to check on the children but she has her own family down the road she is struggling to care for. We convince her to let us take the boy to the clinic.

When we arrive, we discover we are not the only ones with a sick child on our hands. A young mother is sitting in the blazing sun on the steps holding a baby with an infected cleft lip and her arms around a young girl. She has taken off the girl’s shirt and dunked it in water to try and bring down her daughters fever. The little girl’s eyes glitter feverishly and her deep cough mirrors our own little charge. They have been sitting on those steps in the sun for over four hours. The clinic is empty and there is no indication when, if ever, anyone is coming back. I try the doors and wander inside the deserted building. There is little in the way of supplies and it appears to have been deserted some time ago.

As we stand next to the van with three sick kids, one crying aunt and a defeated looking young mother who is old before her time, we feel rather inadequate. There are few options so we load everyone into the van and drive into the city to the Angkor Children’s Hospital. There in the outdoor waiting room we are given a number on a slip of paper much like a deli counter and search for seats among the sea of parents and ill children waiting in the stifling heat to see the doctor. He sits at the front of the building armed with a stethoscope, tough depressors, a thermometer, and an eyes, ears and throat light and an endless stream of coughing, feverish, bleeding, crying children. We are just a few of the hundreds crammed in there today and as the only Westerners in the room, John and I attract attention. I wonder what the other parents there think of us – these rich white people visiting their lives only briefly. I look around at the sea of humanity and wonder how much of an impact are we really having despite our good intentions in bringing the children here.

The diagnosis is in and both older children have pneumonia and are given a weeks supply of medicine. The toddler’s infect cleft lip is of concern to the doctor and he wants the mother to stay but she refuses because she doesn’t want to leave her other children back at the village alone. We find a tuk tuk driver willing to make the trip and convince her to go back, get the other children and return. It costs us only $10. The aunt and boy are excited to realize that his mother is at a hospital only a few blocks from where we are and we give them money for transportation as well so he can visit her before they also head back to the village to rejoin his siblings. John and I try not to wince as the two of them pile onto the back of a moto sans helmets and zip off down the street.

We are both exhausted and wonder what will happen after we have left. Will the children take their full week’s worth of medicine or will the remaining pills be sold after a few doses? Will the boy’s mother die from TB here in the city and leave her 13-year-old daughter permanently in charge out at their neglected farm? Today at least, we were able to do something but it seems like very little in the whole scheme of their lives.

Sometimes I feel like I am spitting in the wind.

Two Boys Named Sum Namg

My last day in Siem Reap started off rather well. I suspect it had something to do with the fact that I actually slept through the night. Feeling full of spit and vinegar I bounded down the steps to Shinta Mani’s café for a much-needed cappuccino. The absolutely adorable staff – trainees from their trade school hover around me anxious to test their new skills and a young man who had just started the day before is absolutely excited to show off his barista skills. He wants to be the one to make my coffee and nearly twenty minutes later, he carefully walks over with his masterpiece of perfect foam and delicately sprinkled coco powder. Depositing it in front of me with a hopeful grin, he steps back and waits for the verdict. I take a sip - it’s ice cold. No small wonder since it took him so long to make it look good but I don’t have the heart to tell him and instead opt for reassuring him that it is simply the best cappuccino I’ve ever had. He thanks me about a dozen times and trots off with a happy smile. It’s too hot in Siem Reap for hot coffee anyway….

Trina, my Cambodian guide from the day before is waiting to take me to the orphanage to visit the children and I have mixed feelings about going. I have spent most of my time and energy in Cambodia these last few years working with street and garbage dump children. While they struggle every day, most have parents and I’ve long felt I needed to see what the conditions were like for the children who didn’t have parents. I’ve heard horror stories about orphanages in developing countries and after yesterday’s adventure with the sick children in the village I wonder if I am up to it. Especially after Trina informs me that she received a report that the boy we brought to the hospital with his aunt was unable to find his mother at the hospital where she is being treated for TB and returned the village without seeing her. And the young mother with the toddler with the infected cleft lip never returned to the hospital as requested, despite the transportation we arranged for her. Apparently that boulder I am pushing uphill just knocked me flat down again and got stuck at the bottom of the hill in a crater for good measure.

Less than a half an hour later we are pulling up in front of a small, white building with a plaque reading “Sisters Of Charity Mission.” The orphanage is run by two elderly Korean Catholic nuns who seem full of good intentions but not exactly full of the energy required for the massive troop of little toddlers that come screaming up to me on little plastic riding toys like a tiny motorcycle gang. Apparently visitors are a special treat and they all begin clamoring to be picked up. They poke, prod and drool on me while laughing with delight at the attention. They range in age from about 9 months to 5 years old, except for one girl of 13 who has CP and severe developmental disabilities. They are trying to find another home for her because she has outgrown their facility but no one knows where to send her. One little guy yells his disapproval from a nearby crib that he is not being included in the festivities so I scoop him up. His name is Sum Nang. There is a large bony growth between his eyes, which resembles a small horn. He is unable to focus his eyes because the growth has distorted his upper cranium. The nuns tell me the doctors will not operate until he is 3 years old. I ask how hold he is now and they are unsure, which doesn’t bode well for follow through when the time does come for surgery. I try to pry information out of the Sisters about the children but there is a bit of a language barrier, so I settle on the floor instead and just allow the children to use my as a jungle gym. All in all, I think, it could be worse. The room is clean and the cribs are well maintained. The children appear well fed and happy.

It is about 30 minutes into the visit when I spot him. I had returned Sum Nang to his crib when a small movement caught my eye in the back room off the main room. There are a handful of cribs back there and I notice there is a boy in one. His large brown eyes staring at through the bars of his bed captivate me and I wander closer to the door of his room wondering why he is on his own back there, far removed from the activity and laughter in the front room. A young man enters the shelter then – a gentle giant named Haman who introduces himself and tells me he has recently arrived as a volunteer from Europe. He notices me eyeing the small boy in the back room and asks the sisters permission to ‘show me’. They nod and Haman leads me into the back where I stare down at a small boy laying flat on his back clad only in a diaper which is a size too small. His name is also Sum Nang. He is five years old though he is the size of a 2 year old. Haman tells me that Sum Nang has some type of a spinal injury or deformity – they really don’t know because no one has ever examined him. All they know is that while he has feeling and can move his lower body; he apparently has no control over it. Unable to sit up or roll over on his own, he spends his days in the crib flat on his back. The nuns, while good intentioned, simply don’t know what to do with him. Only since Haman’s arrival has Sum Nang started getting rotated in his crib and his little body is covered head to toe in a heat rash that has become infected. He is not vocal at all. They assume he is developmentally delayed, but this is also a boy that has received no stimulation at all for years. I tickle his feet and he breaks into a big grin watching my face and movements with his expressive eyes. Haman fans him and Sum Nang laughs soundlessly again. There is a stuffed animal in his crib but it is tied to the side. There is noting for him to grasp and play with even though he has use of his upper body. I am dismayed to discover he has an identical twin brother who was adopted but the family did not want the disabled other brother. Haman seems frustrated with the fact that little has been or can be done for this boy and it is likely that his developmental problems are exacerbated by the fact he is alone in a crib on his back all the time. Once a day, he tells me, the nuns pick Sum Nang up and walk him around the yard outside a few times before putting him back. Apparently, he loves this activity and I’m thinking very uncharitable thoughts because of course he likes it! It’s the only time his scenery changes! This boy should be having physical contact and stimulation more than one a day like a prisoner let out in the yard for his exercise.

There are moments when I really feel that God has put things in my path for a purpose. Looking down at Sum Nang, I am thinking of the amazing surgeon from Los Angeles who performed the spinal surgery on one of my Cambodian kids Lyda and has gone on to start his own non profit here in Siem Reap to assist in other cases and the amazing doctor from the speech and pathology department at Columbia University that I met at my screening a few weeks ago who will actually be joining me in Phnom Penh. Two doctors, both with specialties in fields of expertise that Sum Nang desperately needs that have been brought into my life. If that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is. I lean over the crib and tickle his feet once more, rewarded with a big toothless smile. It’s time to bring him out of the back room.

One way or another.

The Road To Phnom Penh

I was up at 5am waiting for the bus to pick me up for the six hour trek to Phnom Penh when a tuk tuk driver pulled up and asked if I needed a ride. I mentioned my mode of upcoming transportation and rather than seem disappointed at losing a fare, he was thrilled to have a captive audience on which to practice his English. I admit to being a little preoccupied and less than gracious conversationalist. My thoughts were divided on the desperate anticipation of seeing my “kids” in Phnom Penh and of little Sun Nam, the disabled boy from the orphanage the day before. I was anxious to begin my journey on the Mekong Express with my ten-dollar “first class” ticket clutched tightly in my hand and assurances ringing in my head from various individuals that the bus was the way to travel. Though I admit I was a little suspicious listening to people extol the virtues of bus travel to Phnom Penh when Roman, one of CFI’s founding directors suggested at a dinner party the night before that the ride would be more bearable with a handful of valium. My disposition was not greatly improved by the sight of a rickety, beat up overgrown mini van lurching down the street towards me. That better not be the bus - I thought to myself just as my chatty tuk tuk companion helpfully announced - YOUR BUS! It ground to a halt in front of me and from the sounds of the brakes, possibly ground them away completely. I sourly climbed aboard and found myself a seat sans seat belt but at least with an intact back rest. The bus lumbered away, slowly building up speed and in no time we were careening through the back streets of Siem Reap, which at best, are pitted with potholes and large rocks. I moved to the center of my seat to keep from smashing my head against the window. Small wonder people take drugs prior to getting onboard I thought uncharitably as we bounced along with teeth rattling intensity.

My discomfort was short lived however. It turned out to be a temporary bus bringing us to the large cross-country bus we would use for the duration of the journey. I silently sent up a prayer and scurried on board, not even minding that my knees were practically touching my chin in the seat. This one at least had a bathroom and a box lunch with bottled water, which frankly, is one step up from airlines these days. I found myself deep in thought during the journey and enjoyed the scenery of this country I have grown to love as it flashed by. The hours flew by and as we arrived in Phnom Penh, I felt my anticipation grow. I couldn’t wait to see the kids. The entry to the city was not without a bit of adventure. The major road into the city is under construction and a backhoe had dug of the street leaving a thin track on one side and a high pile of dirt on the other. The bus driver seemed not to care and for the next five minutes, our bus angled up dangerously and did its best to attempt a two-wheel approach down the street. The bus leaned far to the right and we all got an enticing view of the deep ditch we might be tumbling into at any moment. A terrified looking white woman in front of me clutched her husband and screeched. It was perhaps a measure of my fatigue or simply a result of being in Cambodia so many times in these types of situations that I simply smiled and noticed the beautiful foliage in the bottom of the ditch.

After checking into my familiar digs at the FCC and freshening up – I dashed up the stairs to the FCC’s bar to meet up with Dr. Karen Froud from the Speech and Pathology Department at Columbia University. Karen and I had hit it off at the screening of my documentary there and she had flown to Cambodia to meet me and spend some time with the girl she sponsors here at the Cambodian Children’s Fund or CCF. Most of the kids from my documentary are now students at CCF, with the exception of Linna, the 6-year-old sister of my beloved Charam, the charming street beggar who stole my heart when I met him working the streets three years ago. While Charam is studying and living at the school, Linna is still too young, so she lives on the sidewalk with her mother and spends her days wandering the city streets – my own little artful dodger. My impatience gets the better of me and Karen and I immediately hop on a moto bike and head over to CCF.

Charam must have a sixth sense about when I am in the country because he always manages to materialize out of thin air within moments of my arrival. Not that I am complaining ~ he loudly yells my name and hurtles down the steps, jumping into my arms with glee. Following behind him is Bunlong, a shy boy who is Charam’s best friend. My own dear friend Dennis Ryan is Bunlong’s sponsor and as soon as I say hello to Bunlong he runs off and reappears clutching Dennis’ latest letter in his hands. I tell him how much Dennis misses him and loves him and he gives me his sweet smile and points to Dennis’ name on the letter.

It isn’t long before my other boys; Meng Ly and Hov Nhagn appear. Meng Ly, who is now 17 is a little too cool to hug me anymore so he simply fist bumps me and says hello. Hov Nhagn has not quite reached that point and wraps his arms around me and hugs me tight. I’m so pleased to see them and can’t wait to see the girls. Word has spread and Lyda, Leakhena and Layseng all dash over for hugs and hellos. I spend the rest of the afternoon playing soccer with the boys (and Leakhena) in the courtyard while Lyda and Layseng, chat and giggle like the 16-year-old girls they are. I promise to return tomorrow for our outing at the mall for a little shopping and lunch and then privately pull Charam aside and ask him if he can tell me roughly where Linna and his mother are now living. The sidewalk spot they have occupied for so long is under construction and they were booted out six months ago. He narrows it down to an area near a market that thankfully is not too far from my hotel. Karen is game to try and track her down and we set off in the hot sun, searching for a little needle in a haystack. My last visit to Cambodia I wasn’t able to find Linna and I’m determined to see her this go around. I’m always petrified I will return and discover she has been snatched off the streets by any number of shady individuals. Not an unlikely scenario given the sex trafficking issues in the country and the fact that Yorn, her mother, pays little attention to Linna’s aimless wanderings. In fact, just a few days before, Linna had walked over a mile to CCF to visit her brother and stayed there for two days before returning home. Yorn hadn’t even noticed she was missing.

Karen and I trudge along while my eyes search the bustling market and sidewalks for my little mischievous imp. I know her hair was shaved off a few weeks ago due to lice so I know it hasn’t grown back that much. Luck is partially with us and I spot Yorn in a hammock. She sees me and immediately gets up and I am dismayed to see she has not one, but TWO new babies. I knew she had given birth to a baby boy shortly after we wrapped filming and was expecting to see the new baby, named Charon. I was NOT, however, expecting to see another infant, whom she introduced as Chara. I realized she must have gotten pregnant again almost immediately after the last birth and to my dismay, it was clear she was pregnant again. I was the least surprised person ever when I asked after Linna and she wasn’t sure where she had gone off too. However, my arrival had attracted attention. Many of Yorn’s neighbors know me well – Yorn refers to me as the kids “God Mother” and within minutes, other street kids are hollering for Linna up and down the street. I wander up the road a little searching. Suddenly, she pops up across the busy street and begins walking away from me. Linna! I shout, hoping she will hear me over the noise of the traffic and market. Her little close cropped head swivels about and she spots me. She yells “Mak Tor Mak Tor!” Dashing across the street she jumps into my arms, throws her head around my neck and kisses me smack on the mouth. “Mak Tor” – she whispers fondly and lays her head on my shoulder.

My day is complete.

Shopping With Teenagers Is The Same Everywhere

I take an absurd amount of pleasure in the fact that the Fresco Café staff always remembers me in between my visits. “Good morning, Long Black Decaf!” the hostess chirps as I stumble my way over to my favorite seat. I am not a particularly alert morning person no matter what country I am in however I can’t help but be in a cheery mood. This morning Karen and I are heading over to CCF to pick up our gang of kids for a shopping trip to the mall. Whenever I am in town, the kids love to head there to shop and have burgers and ice cream. Plus they never get tired of the escalators, which are better than an amusement park ride. Until we started going to the mall, none of them had ever even seen an escalator and it’s become one of the highlights of the trip for them.

The kids pile into the back of the pick up. On the way, we stop to pick up Linna and she happily jumps into the truck sans shoes and wearing a pink panther shirt that is about five sizes too big and absolutely filthy. I’m just relieved we were able to find her for our outing. One can never tell where in the city Linna will be at any given moment and Charam was anxious about finding her. Our little family now complete we are on our way.

I’m here to tell you that teenage girls are the same everywhere. Lyda and Layseng fuss so long over finding shoes and clothing, I’m sure the boys are about to gnaw off their own arms. We all heave a sigh of relief when they finally manage to pick out their shoes – matching of course but our relief is short lived when they can only find a right shoe in Lyda’s size. This prompts an all out search by the adults and I’m on my hands and knees in a pile of random footwear praying for a left shoe size 36. Charam has wasted little time in picking out yellow basketball sneakers, jeans and a tee shirt. My older boys Nghan and Meng Ly opted for men’s dress pants; shirts and leather sandals and I smile to think that these handsome young men have come a long way from life in the garbage dump and village.

Linna, tromping around in her new orange sandals suddenly dashes into a nearby store where the girls are shopping. I’ve been trying to interest her in a practical pair of jeans and a tee shirt but she is having none of it. She latches onto the frilliest, pink ruffled dress I have ever seen and clutches it to her chest. She turns those big brown eyes at me and I just know I am about to be bamboozled into a purchase that is totally ridiculous. Where on earth is Linna going to wear such a thing? Plus she’s going to trash it within days as she gallops around the streets of Phnom Penh. I gently try to distract her with a pink sleeveless tee shirt and she shakes her head adamantly. “Mak Tor!” she lectures me in Khmer, “That shirt is for a BOY” Who knew my little tomboy harbored such a secret desire to be a princess? So ten minutes later, Linna is grinning happily all done up in her pink dress. She does however, refuse to take off her dirty blue shorts and delights in flashing us by whipping up the hem of her dress now and again.

Lyda and Layseng are STILL fussing over clothing and Meng Ly’s eyes have started to glaze over. Frankly, so have mine. Then I’m snapped awake by loud, obnoxious sound of a chicken clucking. Linna has found herself the toy section and trots over to me with an activity keyboard complete with ABC, animal sounds and a mini piano built in. Within moments, Charam is at her side and patiently pressing each of the letters encouraging her to repeat them. She charms us all with her attempts at ABC and Karen comments to me how touched she is with Charam. His caring demeanor with his sister during our outing has impressed her to no end. He is her parent in every sense of the word and his innate goodness makes my heart swell with affection and pride.

With no end in sight to Lyda and Layseng’s pickiness, I suggest Karen take the rest of the kids to the restaurant for lunch while I find a way to subtly hurry my divas along. The boys are thrilled at this suggestion and they all tromp off. My growling stomach strongly wishes it were going along. I turn to Lyda and Layseng and raise my eyebrows at them, trying to look stern. They look suitable unimpressed. “You have 15 minutes to make up your mind,” I announce in what I hope is a very parental tone. “Otherwise I am buying you both Hello Kitty dresses.” That threat apparently does the trick because suddenly, the jeans that they found lacking before have become more fashionably acceptable.

After a noisy, happy lunch with chicken, burgers, fries and ice cream we are ready to return to school. It doesn’t escape my notice that Charam is quietly rounding up leftovers and stuffing them into a small box. I know from experience that he is bringing the leftovers home to Yorn and his little brothers. He has also only drank half of his coke and plans to bring this back as well. We drop Linna off first and Charam spends a few moments conversing with his mother before he says goodbye to his little sister and hops back in the truck with a pensive look on his face. He reaches over and grabs my hand looking serious. “Heather” he pleads, “Linna needs to go to school too.”

He sits back and watches his sister as we drive away.

Karate, Parades and Being The Pied Piper

It’s my last day in Phnom Penh and I’m already dreading saying goodbye to the kids. I know the day is going to pass much too quickly and we’ve got a full schedule to attend too. From 10am to 3pm there is a citywide karate tournament for all the kids in the various NGO’s. It is taking place in a large arena at the nearby Friend’s School and Charam and Bunlong are beside themselves with excitement and pride. They are both competing for CCF and have already dressed themselves carefully in their ghi’s and belts. I’m a little stuffed with excitement and pride myself and am thankful that I am actually there for such an important event.

The arena is about 120 degrees and Karen and I are drenched with sweat within minutes of arriving. She goes off in search of some warm bottled water and soda and I secure us a prime spot sitting on the stage facing the front of the competition floor. The organizers are trying to keep the heat down by keeping the lights fairly low. I am not sure this is really having much of an impact but I’d rather not test the theory by raising the lights. My thin grey shirt has become progressively more transparent in this sauna and lights would probably just add to the show.

Bunlong is up first and he and another boy from a competing school each demonstrate various karate forms. Bunlong wins his round but loses his second and is eliminated from the next match up. When they call Charam’s name my stomach is in knots hoping he does well. I move right up to the edge of the mat with my little video camera like an obnoxious stage parent and bounce nervously on the sidelines. Being bias, I think he absolutely kicks the other kid’s butt. However, I find myself holding my breath waiting for the judges’ decision. Charam wins the round and runs over to me with a huge grin on his face. I give him a big hug and kiss and tell him how proud I am. He struts away looking very pleased with himself.

When his final match is called he strides full of confidence to the center of the mat and begins. His charisma is hard to ignore and the other CCF kids are loudly cheering for him when he finishes. I nearly bust with pride when he wins again as if I had anything to do with his work and dedication. The only thing that spoils the moment is when we find out the awards are going to be given out the next day and I have to tell Charam I am leaving in the morning.
Karen and I decide to go grab a quick late lunch before heading back to CCF. We have plans to take Layseng and Hov Nghan home to the Stung Meanchy Dump Village. They usually go home Saturday evening and I want to visit and bring food to their parents whom I got to know while I was filming Small Voices. As we walk outside there is quite a spectacle going on. The International Asian Circus Troupe is in town and putting on a parade. We walk along with them marveling at the costumes and artistry. Just when I think I have seen it all here. I do love this city.

At 5pm Karen and I secure a Tuk Tuk. Our moto drive is disappointed, but there is no way we can fit us, the kids, four boxes of noodles and two cases of oranges on the back of his moto. He’s willing to try but I enjoy my skin and neck too much to risk it. We’ve lucked out with our Tuk Tuk driver. His English is amazing. Even more incredible, he has wired his Tuk Tuk with speakers and an Ipod and is blasting Jethro Thull as we bounce along. It’s rush hour and almost full evening by the time we pull up to Stung Meanchy. This is Karen’s first experience with the village at the dump and the first thing she notices is the thick haze of smoke from the burning garbage.

We drive in as far as the Tuk Tuk driver is willing to go and unload our kids, food and head off to Nhgan’s house first. Within moments there is a massive group of kids trailing after us. Karen quickly discovers the pied piper syndrome I have experienced here when I show up in the village. Look away for one moment and when you look down, there are three small children dangling from your arms and legs. Filthy from their day working in the garbage, they are also usually covered in scabs, lice and sores. But their high spirits reflect their amazing resilience. They laugh and tumble at our feet practicing their English and asking us our names over and over.

Nhgan’s mother is thrilled to see me despite the fact that I catch her bathing. She quickly rinses off and hurries toward me, clutching both my hands and beaming with happiness. Despite our language barrier, we manage to convey our greetings and our pride in Nhgan's progress at school. His father shakes my hand and they are grateful for the housewarming gift of noodles and fruit we have brought with us. We finish our goodbyes and move off to Layseng’s house with our small army of village kids in tow. Layseng’s mother sees us coming and hurries over to meet us. They are clearly happy to see their daughter and invite us into their hut. We decline because darkness is fast approaching and Karen wants to view Stung Meanchy before we do. Nhgan insists of escorting us up the giant hill of garbage and fusses over Karen, holding her hand and making sure she doesn’t lose her footing in this sea of refuse. We stand in the middle of the vast garbage dump and watch silently as the thick smoke only partially obscures the workers loading up the large bags of recycling that has been collected that day. The dump is quiet this time of the evening as most of the families and kids are back at the village for their evening meal. It is impressive and sobering all the same and Karen silently takes it in. I point to a large truck with a couple of young guys working on it and smile at Nhgan. He touches my shoulder. “You find me up there Heather” he says. I remember that day so clearly. The serious young man who called to me from the top of the dump truck where he was picking through the garbage with a hand made pick. He wanted so desperately to tell his story. How blessed am I that we found each other in this inhospitable place?

As the light fades, Nghan becomes visibly more concerned and tugs at me. “We go, Heather,” he urges. I have received the same vibe. When darkness falls, Stung Meanchy becomes an even more dangerous place with various gang activity and older, jaded young men with trouble in their eyes. We’ve already attracted attention from a gang who call out something in Khmer to Nghan, which causes him to hurry us along. In no time, we are back in the village and Layseng joins back up with us as we walk back to the Tuk Tuk. As we walk along the garbage-strewn path I look down and notice she is wearing the white dress shoes we bought for her at the mall yesterday. Yesterday when she seems like just another teenager and far removed from this reality of the place she calls home.

When we reach the Tuk Tuk Layseng promptly bursts into tears and Nhgan clutches my hand. I hate leaving them behind. I hate that I am grateful that I will be able to go to my hotel and take a shower to scrub off the smell of smoke and garbage clinging to my skin. I hold Layseng close and assure her and Nhgan that I will be back before the end of the year. They watch as we pull away and both Karen and I are quiet and thoughtful on our way back to CCF to say goodbye to the other kids. It gets no easier at CCF as I say goodbye to Lyda, Layseng and Meng Ly. Charam, with whom I have an especially close relationship, follows me out to the yard. I tell him how much I love him and how proud I am of him. He nods and buries his head in my neck. “You come back, Heather. You come back.”

I wonder if he knows that part of me never leaves.