Letter home from Laos and Thailand on June 27, 2008
Dear family and friends,
I hope that you're all well and happy.
The healing pace of life in Luang Prabang, Laos, was just what I needed to help recover from the food poisoning and dehydration I got toward the end of my expedition in Cambodia.
Brimming with curiosity, I was anxious to begin a rustic two-day, two-night Mekong River journey.
I spent most of the past few days literally off the grid, floating up the Mekong on a ramshackle wood slowboat from Luang Prabang to Huay Xai, in Laos, and then ferry ride for the water border crossing into Chiang Khong, northern Thailand.
Days with no access to technology (or much electricity, even) gave me time to reflect on my journey so far.
Luang Prabang gave my body time to decompress and the Mekong gave my mind time to decompress.
I stayed at several places that were $3–$5 a night in Laos not so much out of budgetary constraints, this time, but because of infrastructure limitations. In some locations, that was literally the going rate.
But what that means, of course, are the understandably dingy conditions: no flushing toilets, the necessity of keeping my own toilet paper and hand sanitizer on me at all times, no bathroom sinks in one of the guesthouses nor in a local restaurant, which helps explain a violent aftershock case of food poisoning I got in the middle of the night in Huay Xai, Laos.
Off the grid and on the Mekong
The limestone karst scenery, steep jungle-covered mountains and lush tropical fruit crops were most plentiful just outside of Luang Prabang.
During the two-day Mekong river journey, the slowboat would make the briefest of stops at tiny nooks so remote that when the local Lao passengers wanted to disembark, the slowboat would pull up close to the shore and the local would leap from the slowboat onto the dirt and grass, then begin walking uphill, presumably toward a village.
Because the slowboat doesn’t travel when it’s dark, you have a mandatory overnight stay in a tiny village nestled along a remote shore of the Mekong, called Pakbeng.
The guidebooks say next to nothing about Pakbeng, so I didn't expect anything other than barebones guesthouses with cold showers.
What I found was a tiny, peaceful, slice of heaven.
Not only was it nice to stretch my legs and get to walk around on solid land, but the river view from the balcony of my villa was the stuff of dreams.
And, at $5 a night, I could hardly complain about the cold shower (not enough electricity from the generators) or the showerhead that was more of a liability than a utility.
I figured out quickly enough that more water was pouring from a compromise in the seal of the shower hose than out of the showerhead, so once I used that instead of where the water was supposed to come out, I was in business.
In the jungle, a limited cold shower is always better than no shower.
I was also stunned to find a lovely, authentic Indian restaurant in Pakbeng serving omnivorous and vegetarian food.
It was called Hasan, and was the first major restaurant I encountered on the right when I came up from the pier.
Even though I ordered a feast of spinach and potatoes, fried vegetable patties, garlic naan, and rice, the bill only came to about $4 before tip.
The gracious owner, Hilu, came out and started speaking to me after he saw my little "Vegan Passport" book that I'd shown to the waiter.
The book explains that I am vegan in 58 languages (59 after I asked an employee at the Peace of Angkor Villa to handwrite a translation in Cambodian) but it's also missing Lao.
The waiter spoke Lao and Thai, so I showed him the Thai page. Adjacent to that was Tamil.
The owner saw that and had to know who had the little book with his native language in it! He flies the spices in from India.
The cuisine reminded me of Pakwan, back in San Francisco. Moments like that make you even more homesick than you already are.
Ambassadors for our countries
What impressed me even more than the delectable, authentic Indian food was Hilu's professionalism when dealing with a group of incredibly rude travelers.
One of the customers at a noisy table was a vegetarian and realized that chicken was in her dinner.
Rather than politely bring the mistake to the staff's attention and ask for a replacement meal, she stormed into the kitchen and started screaming (I am not exaggerating about this) at the staff so loudly that all activity in the restaurant came to a screeching halt.
She yelled that she's been a vegetarian her entire life and that they served her chicken, and that she ate some of it.
She said that she wasn't paying for the meal and began to berate the staff with words and in a tone that were insulting, disrespectful and inappropriate under any circumstances but that were especially jarring in a peaceful and quiet environment like the remote Mekong.
As a vegan, I can empathize with her being unhappy about being served meat. Apparently, very few vegans are in Southeast Asia. During my trip so far, I have accidentally been served and momentarily ingested shrimp, eggs, milk and fish.
My internal radar would go off and I'd alert the waiter that something off-limits was in my meal and I'd politely ask that it be replaced or I would reorder and have him bring me something else.
Yes, I have been unhappy when this has happened, but I don't expect the world to revolve around me. Veganism is not common here. People are doing me a favor when they make me a special meal and I have genuinely thanked them for this.
The rude woman's table of friends were no better.
When it was time for them to pay, they each started haggling with the management over the bill, claiming that they'd been overcharged and refusing to pay for items they ordered and already finished, for example claiming that they should only pay for four Cokes even though six empty cans were on their table.
Other patrons in the restaurant were staring. I was staring. They didn't care. They were aggressive and had an ugly sense of entitlement that I've seen in people before but is always a shock.
No matter where we are, no matter the cultural differences, logistics or circumstances, we owe each other human decency and respect.
Whenever we travel, we are ambassadors for our home countries.
These rude travelers left a very negative impression of their country and culture not only on me, but on everyone else who was in the restaurant.
Several of us (me and the other patrons) went out of our way to thank the staff for being so gracious, especially in light of what they were dealing with.
We were embarrassed for those travelers even though they would not recognize that they were wrong and disrespectful.
I hope that I have been a good ambassador for the United States (and for Chinese Americans, as locals throughout Southeast Asia continue to ask my racial heritage everywhere I go).
The Thailand ricochet
After ferrying into Chiang Khong, Thailand, I took a rickety bus the few hours to Chiang Rai. This is a pretty major city up north. It has traffic, pollution, technology, urban infrastructure, and a river running through it.
Although urban lodgings abound in the city center from which I'm writing this e-mail, I'm staying at a humble rural riverside retreat in the jungle.
It's called the Akha River House, part of the community organization for education and cultural advancement, and it's $3 for tonight. I chose it on a whim while traveling with a European couple I met on the Mekong, Margarita and Victor.
I've definitely missed being able to communicate seamlessly with people. Just after our slowboat journey, I realized that they speak perfect English and Spanish, so it's been a real treat to converse with them in two of our overlapping languages.
They spend seven months of every year working and saving money so that they can spend five months traveling. Can you imagine?
Hitting the showers
Much of my quality of life here can be summed up by the infrastructure of my showers.
In an attempt to minimize the number of times I wonder to myself, “is that awful smell coming from me?” I’ve persisted in nightly showers even through less-than-ideal circumstances.
The Akha experience required the most bravery.
Set in the jungle, the outdoor shower was exposed to the creatures of the day and night.
Before diving in, I had to mentally accept the geckos climbing the walls and ceiling feet from me, the leaping cricket-looking insects flying around inches from me, and the constantly buzzing mosquitoes plotting their next blood meal by hovering over my exposed skin.
I don't think I stopped flinching every time a creepy crawly or flying creature of the night buzzed by me, but it did feel so good to rinse the humid and rank day off of me.
Southeast Asia homestretch
Tomorrow morning, I depart overland for a nine-hour bus journey to Sukhothai, one of the ancient Thai capitals.
There, and at its sister site, Si Satchanalai, I'll find giant Buddhas in open-air temples. They’re vast sites, similar to Angkor in terms of spread-out logistics.
Now at the end of my expedition, I'll only be able to squeeze in a day, maybe two, before I need to get back to Bangkok for my return flight home on July 2.
I knew that spending so much time at Angkor (nine days) would truncate everything else but I'm content with my decision.
If I'd had the budget, I could have spent the entire three weeks at Angkor, truly a spiritual and photographer's paradise, but the continued costs of the access pass and tuk tuk driver weren't feasible.
It's hard to believe that my expedition is already nearing its end. In ways, it feels like a lifetime has passed and in others, it's like I blinked and I'm at the end.
A heartfelt thanks to everyone who's written, shared updates on your lives and learned from my experiences. Those familiar voices have meant the world to me and helped keep me going during the difficult moments of my travels.
Be dignified, be respectful and be gracious. I will do the same.
Love,
Leah
Leah C. Lau
Photographer, Writer and Philanthropist
Silent Light Photography
www.leahlau.com
Friday, June 27, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Extraordinary Week in Angkor, Cambodia | Meeting the ELMA Students
Letter home from Cambodia and Laos on June 23, 2008
Dear family and friends,
I am writing from the sleepy, idyllic Buddhist enclave of Luang Prabang, Laos.
A short flight from Siem Reap, Cambodia, this is the third (and last) new country for this expedition.
When I leave here, I'll head back to Thailand and start winding my way back to Bangkok for my return flight home.
The Laotians in Luang Prabang are wonderfully warm, patient and friendly. They're not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination but they have a peacefulness and contentedness in their demeanors. It's really relaxing being in their presence.
I strolled up and down the handful of Buddhist temple-lined streets.
I learned a bit about the country and culture; checked out handmade goods and crafts from Laos; ambled alongside pretty, winding views of the Nam Khan and Mekong rivers; and stumbled into a lovely shop, Naga Gallery Jewelry Designs, where I had a charming discussion with two French expats, Fabrice and his mama.
It is, as my friends and family in San Francisco would recognize, like a MultiKulti of Luang Prabang. The owners' eye for astoundingly gorgeous local finds is a wonder.
After poring over the selection for hours (and being woefully aware of my Lao kip cash budget, which was the equivalent of about $20), I picked out a pure silver Chiang Mai rose pendant, regional to northern Thailand.
With the ELMA students from Cambodia still close in my heart, this pendant came to symbolize them and my time here.
************
Angkor's magnificence
My week at Angkor, in Cambodia, which refers to the entire archaeological site, was easily my most intense and physically grueling week of shooting since I was in Antarctica in 2006.
I noticed the parallels in the concentrated spans in which I was working: my seven-day Angkor pass vs. five days of landings and zodiac excursions.
The extreme physical conditions: heat, humidity, and logistical spread over many miles vs. extreme cold and logistical spread over islands and the continent itself.
And the toll that each took on my body: 2.5 days of food poisoning / dehydration / exhaustion at the end of my week in Cambodia vs. 20 hours of seasickness at the beginning of Antarctica.
Is anyone surprised, really, that I got violent food poisoning in Cambodia?
During the early part of the week, I worked with the cultural guide, Vey Lav, to get a handle on the enormity of Angkor.
The Angkor site is, in fact, so vast that most of it hasn't even been excavated from the jungle yet. Dozens of sites are accessible now but hundreds are hidden throughout the forest.
A combination of Buddhist and Hindu temples and monuments, they were made during centuries of vision and labor, and constructed out of materials like sandstone, pink sandstone and red volcanic rock.
I charged forward hard all week, monsoon or no, learning the sites, shooting, scouting ideas for the future, adding to my wish list, learning about potential shots for other years, other seasons, taking mental notes, and making photographic snapshots in my mind for images I'd like to make someday.
Some of my favorite sites are Ta Prohm, the Bayon, Angkor Wat, Pre Rup, Bakong, Neak Pean, Ta Som, Preah Khan, the South Gate and Thommanon.
A blessing of my choosing to come during the monsoon low season is that fewer tourists were around—smaller crowds and fewer people to have to shoot around.
The monsoons, which last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, also provided welcome relief from the omnipresent heat.
I learned the signs of when a monsoon was about the start: The air would dramatically cool down and the humidity would get cut. Then the air would become still and tight, as though a giant took in a huge breath. A slight humming noise would start to radiate.
I'd get my umbrella ready or take shelter in an outdoor temple and wait for the deluge.
When the butterflies started to propagate the air again, I knew that the monsoon was finished.
Coconuuuuuutttttt
My dedicated tuk tuk driver all week for Angkor, Mr. Savay, spoke limited English. My Cambodian consists of thank you (aukoon), no thank you (te aukoon), and bless you (spy). Oh yeah, and cow (go)—some kids taught me that one.
Because Mr. Savay carted me around all week, we worked out ideas and signals.
He used the word "hungry" for everything from "Do you need to eat?" "Did you eat?" "I need to eat" to "Are you going to eat?"
I realized early on that he likes to eat as much as I do!
When I could tell he was losing his patience with timing or exhaustion or fill in the blank, I'd suggest we get some refreshment like a meal or my jungle favorite—the juice of fresh green coconuts.
I'd ask, "Mr. Savay, coconut time?"
Not prone to straightforward answers like yes or no, even in Cambodian, Mr. Savay's "yes" answer was saying an exaggerated, "Coconuuuuuutttttt" and his "no" answer was looking at me like I was crazy.
When I last wrote, it was the eve of my first morning getting up at 4 a.m. to catch the sunrise in front of Angkor Wat.
As incredible—or dare I say impossible—as it might seem to those who know how hard it is for me to get up in the morning when I am home in the city, I relentlessly stuck to that schedule from Monday through Saturday.
Mr. Savay and I had the same disgruntled yet spirited exchange at the end of every day.
"I want to try the sunrise again tomorrow morning. 4 a.m."
Exasperated look, "Why every morning?"
"It will be years before I can return. I have to try every day that I am here."
Mutual laughter as we agreed on 4.
Rinse and repeat until the 3:30 a.m. start time the Saturday morning of the summer solstice.
A friendly group of Americans from Colorado reminded me of it on the 20th. I'd been so immersed in my daily bubble of sunrises, monsoons, temples and sunsets that I lost track of the calendar.
They suggested that I photograph Angkor Wat from the east, rather than from the west, as I'd been doing all week.
It was an interesting idea, one that required an earlier start, not only because of the solstice but because it meant an additional 20 minutes of fumbling in the dark around Angkor Wat with my headlamp to get to the other side.
Mr. Savay was not happy with the news but I placated him by reminding him that his torture was almost over—that I was leaving on Monday and he could have soon have his life back. Another round of laughter.
A monk, a nun and an Angkor conservation worker
During one of my many afternoons exploring, I wanted to get away from the crowds and a little off the beaten track.
I was at Angkor Wat and people were everywhere so I walked off of the main site and went to one of the open air sandstone libraries adjacent to the main temple.
Of the four narrow staircase approaches, I got the bright idea to enter through one surrounded by tall grass, figuring no one had walked there in awhile. I got my wish alright.
By the time I left the site, I realized that my pant legs and tripod bag were covered in hundreds of prickly sticky grass shards—ones that, due to the thin expedition weight material of my pants, needed to be removed one by one so as not to crack and leave the prickly heads in my clothing.
Amazed by own brilliant lack of common sense, I tramped back to Angkor Wat to sit in a well-trod, safe, stone area to begin pulling the shards out.
A few minutes into my effort, a monk appeared, smiling, laughing and offering advice in Cambodian. I couldn't understand him, so he sat down beside me and started pulling out the shards alongside me.
Moments later, a nun appeared and joined suit. And then an Angkor conservation worker.
All three smiled at me joyfully, empathetically and kindly. They chatted in Cambodian. They alternately picked at individual shards with their fingers or used a stick-rubbing technique.
I said "aukoon" (thank you) again and again, and smiled at each of them in turn. About 45 minutes later, I was sticky-grass free, thanks to the patient and selfless efforts of three Cambodian angels.
A monkey, a lily and a can of Raid
On Friday morning, after three consecutive days of thwarted sunrise attempts due to monsoons or overcast skies, I was blessed with my second extraordinary day of shooting at Angkor.
The skies were clear, sublime. Perfect reflections of the Angkor Wat silhouette were in the pool in front of the temple. I spent the latter part of the morning marveling at the light on the lily pads in the pond.
A Cambodian man was swimming in the lily pool, collecting flowers and doing some conservation work.
He carefully placed two beautiful fuchsia-colored water lilies by the shoreline. I went over to try to photograph them in the gorgeous morning light, but just as I was about to get a clear shot, a can of Raid bobbed to the surface of the water right behind the lilies!
All that morning, a very aggressive monkey had been harassing tourists, even climbing up one man's leg.
The Cambodian man in the water started singing a joyful song to the monkey, who started watching the man, as though in a trance.
The monkey whisperer kept calling to the little troublemaker while an astounded crowd of onlookers gathered to see what would happen.
In a flash, the monkey leapt from the shoreline and started swimming toward him. The crowd laughed and cheered. The man continued to sing to the monkey.
A few minutes later, the monkey swam back to shore and went over to the spot where the man had deposited the lilies. The monkey started playing with them and then the can of Raid.
I didn't exactly get the shot I was hoping for but I had one of my best laughs during this trip!
ELMA School for Children
On Wednesday afternoon, I visited the ELMA School, which Vey helped found.
Miles of unpaved dirt road from Siem Reap, in the tiny village of Sambour, it is the only English language school in the vicinity, and serves poor and orphaned Cambodian children.
I was lucky to be the first tourist to ever visit the afternoon students. Vey told me that about five other tourists had visited with the morning classes during the two years that the school has been open.
The children ranged from about 5–18 and were split into two levels by age group.
I thought my ride into Cambodia itself was harrowing but the patchy, narrow, dirt and mud strip to the school was the bumpiest stretch I've ever been on.
I wondered whether the children walked to school. It turned out that most of them rode bicycles. The school is a simple open air concrete building with two classrooms and a tiny library. When I arrived, we visited the younger class first.
The littlest girls, the 5- and 6-year-olds, were beside themselves with excitement and were all over me with their smiles, giggles and questions.
They wanted me to take their pictures, they posed, they adjusted their hair, they put their arms around each other, they mugged. They were joyful and appreciative in spite of their living conditions.
The teenagers were more reserved and self-conscious. They felt more comfortable after I approached them first, and then they would warm up.
During my five years as a camp counselor, I worked with hundreds of teens. It was heartening, in a way, to see that they're the same the world over regardless of their life circumstances.
The younger children had learned the English alphabet and could say individual words and a few sentences which they'd memorized.
The teens impressed me by actually being able to read an entire chalkboard of sentences in English. It was so gratifying to see them so far along their way.
Vey was so excited to show me their library.
When I walked into the small concrete room, which consisted of only two small shelves, I thought of the humble but still well-stocked public libraries I grew up with and compared them in my mind with the tattered picture books before me.
The handful of 20 or so picture books on a small, low shelf was largely comprised of discards from an international school in Taipei. When I worked in books ages ago, I specialized in children's books, and have always had an affinity for them.
Although they have one full shelf of young adult level books, those are mostly too advanced for the students.
A voracious reader as a kid, I read 106 library books in one year alone while I was in elementary school. That seemed to be more than the total number of books in the ELMA library.
This juxtaposition of images simultaneously flashed in my mind. So many students at the ELMA School sharing so few books.
When I asked Vey whether they wanted more books, he looked at me with joy and shock.
I told him that when I get back to the United States, that I can easily shop for children's book to help build their collection, and he said that the children would love to have access to more books.
They are interested in stories about family, children, animals, history, science, etc.
One of their favorites is a picture book about Patagonia and Antarctica because they love to see the foreign landscapes and the pictures of animals.
They can hardly believe such exotic places exist, and were beside themselves when I told them I had actually been to those icy, glacier-covered places.
**If you or anyone you know have extra children's books that you no longer need, feel free to funnel them to me and I will take responsibility for shipping them to Cambodia.
This is an ongoing endeavor for as long as the school is in existence and I retain my contacts in Cambodia.**
Hope for Cambodia
Of all of my warm and wonderful interactions with people in Cambodia, it was the ones with the children that most affected me the most.
I interacted with hundreds of children—beggars, orphans, students, workers for family businesses, disabled, maimed.
One afternoon, I saw a young girl crumpled and crouched at the foot of a bridge.
Her skin, features and body were mangled, maimed beyond the ability to lead a normal life. She radiated almost inconsolable sadness.
I asked Vey if he knew what had happened to her and he said that she had been burned but he didn't know how or why. It took me days after seeing her before I could process my shock and grief enough to cry.
In spite of everything that they have been through, so many of the children still have such beautiful hearts and dreams for their futures.
While photographing sunset at the Bakong pyramid monument, a little deaf girl walked up to me and gave me a ring and flower that she'd made out of grass. We sat side-by-side on a rock and watched the sunset light on the pyramid together.
After awhile, we were joined by a boy from her village.
He was excited to practice his English with me. I asked him if he learns it in school and he said no, he learned English from speaking with tourists but that he plans to study Mandarin and Japanese in school.
He wants to learn multiple languages so that he can be an Angkor guide when he grows up. He was thin and poor. His clothes were simple and dirty and ragged like so many of the other children's.
But he had such light in his eyes and a steady, forward-looking gaze. I looked at kids like him and thought that there are many of them who are going to make it.
************
Night has fallen here in Luang Prabang, Laos.
I'm turning in soon, as I'm still recovering from the food poisoning incident from Friday night. I flew into Laos thinking that if I don't get better soon, I'll head to Bangkok early and see a doctor.
But the rest from the past couple of days has done me a world of good and the slow, healing pace of life in Luang Prabang should keep me on the mend.
Be appreciative, be generous and be open. I will do the same.
Love,
Leah
Leah C. Lau
Photographer, Writer and Philanthropist
Silent Light Photography
http://www.leahlau.com/
Dear family and friends,
I am writing from the sleepy, idyllic Buddhist enclave of Luang Prabang, Laos.
A short flight from Siem Reap, Cambodia, this is the third (and last) new country for this expedition.
When I leave here, I'll head back to Thailand and start winding my way back to Bangkok for my return flight home.
The Laotians in Luang Prabang are wonderfully warm, patient and friendly. They're not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination but they have a peacefulness and contentedness in their demeanors. It's really relaxing being in their presence.
I strolled up and down the handful of Buddhist temple-lined streets.
I learned a bit about the country and culture; checked out handmade goods and crafts from Laos; ambled alongside pretty, winding views of the Nam Khan and Mekong rivers; and stumbled into a lovely shop, Naga Gallery Jewelry Designs, where I had a charming discussion with two French expats, Fabrice and his mama.
It is, as my friends and family in San Francisco would recognize, like a MultiKulti of Luang Prabang. The owners' eye for astoundingly gorgeous local finds is a wonder.
After poring over the selection for hours (and being woefully aware of my Lao kip cash budget, which was the equivalent of about $20), I picked out a pure silver Chiang Mai rose pendant, regional to northern Thailand.
With the ELMA students from Cambodia still close in my heart, this pendant came to symbolize them and my time here.
************
Angkor's magnificence
My week at Angkor, in Cambodia, which refers to the entire archaeological site, was easily my most intense and physically grueling week of shooting since I was in Antarctica in 2006.
I noticed the parallels in the concentrated spans in which I was working: my seven-day Angkor pass vs. five days of landings and zodiac excursions.
The extreme physical conditions: heat, humidity, and logistical spread over many miles vs. extreme cold and logistical spread over islands and the continent itself.
And the toll that each took on my body: 2.5 days of food poisoning / dehydration / exhaustion at the end of my week in Cambodia vs. 20 hours of seasickness at the beginning of Antarctica.
Is anyone surprised, really, that I got violent food poisoning in Cambodia?
During the early part of the week, I worked with the cultural guide, Vey Lav, to get a handle on the enormity of Angkor.
The Angkor site is, in fact, so vast that most of it hasn't even been excavated from the jungle yet. Dozens of sites are accessible now but hundreds are hidden throughout the forest.
A combination of Buddhist and Hindu temples and monuments, they were made during centuries of vision and labor, and constructed out of materials like sandstone, pink sandstone and red volcanic rock.
I charged forward hard all week, monsoon or no, learning the sites, shooting, scouting ideas for the future, adding to my wish list, learning about potential shots for other years, other seasons, taking mental notes, and making photographic snapshots in my mind for images I'd like to make someday.
Some of my favorite sites are Ta Prohm, the Bayon, Angkor Wat, Pre Rup, Bakong, Neak Pean, Ta Som, Preah Khan, the South Gate and Thommanon.
A blessing of my choosing to come during the monsoon low season is that fewer tourists were around—smaller crowds and fewer people to have to shoot around.
The monsoons, which last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, also provided welcome relief from the omnipresent heat.
I learned the signs of when a monsoon was about the start: The air would dramatically cool down and the humidity would get cut. Then the air would become still and tight, as though a giant took in a huge breath. A slight humming noise would start to radiate.
I'd get my umbrella ready or take shelter in an outdoor temple and wait for the deluge.
When the butterflies started to propagate the air again, I knew that the monsoon was finished.
Coconuuuuuutttttt
My dedicated tuk tuk driver all week for Angkor, Mr. Savay, spoke limited English. My Cambodian consists of thank you (aukoon), no thank you (te aukoon), and bless you (spy). Oh yeah, and cow (go)—some kids taught me that one.
Because Mr. Savay carted me around all week, we worked out ideas and signals.
He used the word "hungry" for everything from "Do you need to eat?" "Did you eat?" "I need to eat" to "Are you going to eat?"
I realized early on that he likes to eat as much as I do!
When I could tell he was losing his patience with timing or exhaustion or fill in the blank, I'd suggest we get some refreshment like a meal or my jungle favorite—the juice of fresh green coconuts.
I'd ask, "Mr. Savay, coconut time?"
Not prone to straightforward answers like yes or no, even in Cambodian, Mr. Savay's "yes" answer was saying an exaggerated, "Coconuuuuuutttttt" and his "no" answer was looking at me like I was crazy.
When I last wrote, it was the eve of my first morning getting up at 4 a.m. to catch the sunrise in front of Angkor Wat.
As incredible—or dare I say impossible—as it might seem to those who know how hard it is for me to get up in the morning when I am home in the city, I relentlessly stuck to that schedule from Monday through Saturday.
Mr. Savay and I had the same disgruntled yet spirited exchange at the end of every day.
"I want to try the sunrise again tomorrow morning. 4 a.m."
Exasperated look, "Why every morning?"
"It will be years before I can return. I have to try every day that I am here."
Mutual laughter as we agreed on 4.
Rinse and repeat until the 3:30 a.m. start time the Saturday morning of the summer solstice.
A friendly group of Americans from Colorado reminded me of it on the 20th. I'd been so immersed in my daily bubble of sunrises, monsoons, temples and sunsets that I lost track of the calendar.
They suggested that I photograph Angkor Wat from the east, rather than from the west, as I'd been doing all week.
It was an interesting idea, one that required an earlier start, not only because of the solstice but because it meant an additional 20 minutes of fumbling in the dark around Angkor Wat with my headlamp to get to the other side.
Mr. Savay was not happy with the news but I placated him by reminding him that his torture was almost over—that I was leaving on Monday and he could have soon have his life back. Another round of laughter.
A monk, a nun and an Angkor conservation worker
During one of my many afternoons exploring, I wanted to get away from the crowds and a little off the beaten track.
I was at Angkor Wat and people were everywhere so I walked off of the main site and went to one of the open air sandstone libraries adjacent to the main temple.
Of the four narrow staircase approaches, I got the bright idea to enter through one surrounded by tall grass, figuring no one had walked there in awhile. I got my wish alright.
By the time I left the site, I realized that my pant legs and tripod bag were covered in hundreds of prickly sticky grass shards—ones that, due to the thin expedition weight material of my pants, needed to be removed one by one so as not to crack and leave the prickly heads in my clothing.
Amazed by own brilliant lack of common sense, I tramped back to Angkor Wat to sit in a well-trod, safe, stone area to begin pulling the shards out.
A few minutes into my effort, a monk appeared, smiling, laughing and offering advice in Cambodian. I couldn't understand him, so he sat down beside me and started pulling out the shards alongside me.
Moments later, a nun appeared and joined suit. And then an Angkor conservation worker.
All three smiled at me joyfully, empathetically and kindly. They chatted in Cambodian. They alternately picked at individual shards with their fingers or used a stick-rubbing technique.
I said "aukoon" (thank you) again and again, and smiled at each of them in turn. About 45 minutes later, I was sticky-grass free, thanks to the patient and selfless efforts of three Cambodian angels.
A monkey, a lily and a can of Raid
On Friday morning, after three consecutive days of thwarted sunrise attempts due to monsoons or overcast skies, I was blessed with my second extraordinary day of shooting at Angkor.
The skies were clear, sublime. Perfect reflections of the Angkor Wat silhouette were in the pool in front of the temple. I spent the latter part of the morning marveling at the light on the lily pads in the pond.
A Cambodian man was swimming in the lily pool, collecting flowers and doing some conservation work.
He carefully placed two beautiful fuchsia-colored water lilies by the shoreline. I went over to try to photograph them in the gorgeous morning light, but just as I was about to get a clear shot, a can of Raid bobbed to the surface of the water right behind the lilies!
All that morning, a very aggressive monkey had been harassing tourists, even climbing up one man's leg.
The Cambodian man in the water started singing a joyful song to the monkey, who started watching the man, as though in a trance.
The monkey whisperer kept calling to the little troublemaker while an astounded crowd of onlookers gathered to see what would happen.
In a flash, the monkey leapt from the shoreline and started swimming toward him. The crowd laughed and cheered. The man continued to sing to the monkey.
A few minutes later, the monkey swam back to shore and went over to the spot where the man had deposited the lilies. The monkey started playing with them and then the can of Raid.
I didn't exactly get the shot I was hoping for but I had one of my best laughs during this trip!
ELMA School for Children
On Wednesday afternoon, I visited the ELMA School, which Vey helped found.
Miles of unpaved dirt road from Siem Reap, in the tiny village of Sambour, it is the only English language school in the vicinity, and serves poor and orphaned Cambodian children.
I was lucky to be the first tourist to ever visit the afternoon students. Vey told me that about five other tourists had visited with the morning classes during the two years that the school has been open.
The children ranged from about 5–18 and were split into two levels by age group.
I thought my ride into Cambodia itself was harrowing but the patchy, narrow, dirt and mud strip to the school was the bumpiest stretch I've ever been on.
I wondered whether the children walked to school. It turned out that most of them rode bicycles. The school is a simple open air concrete building with two classrooms and a tiny library. When I arrived, we visited the younger class first.
The littlest girls, the 5- and 6-year-olds, were beside themselves with excitement and were all over me with their smiles, giggles and questions.
They wanted me to take their pictures, they posed, they adjusted their hair, they put their arms around each other, they mugged. They were joyful and appreciative in spite of their living conditions.
The teenagers were more reserved and self-conscious. They felt more comfortable after I approached them first, and then they would warm up.
During my five years as a camp counselor, I worked with hundreds of teens. It was heartening, in a way, to see that they're the same the world over regardless of their life circumstances.
The younger children had learned the English alphabet and could say individual words and a few sentences which they'd memorized.
The teens impressed me by actually being able to read an entire chalkboard of sentences in English. It was so gratifying to see them so far along their way.
Vey was so excited to show me their library.
When I walked into the small concrete room, which consisted of only two small shelves, I thought of the humble but still well-stocked public libraries I grew up with and compared them in my mind with the tattered picture books before me.
The handful of 20 or so picture books on a small, low shelf was largely comprised of discards from an international school in Taipei. When I worked in books ages ago, I specialized in children's books, and have always had an affinity for them.
Although they have one full shelf of young adult level books, those are mostly too advanced for the students.
A voracious reader as a kid, I read 106 library books in one year alone while I was in elementary school. That seemed to be more than the total number of books in the ELMA library.
This juxtaposition of images simultaneously flashed in my mind. So many students at the ELMA School sharing so few books.
When I asked Vey whether they wanted more books, he looked at me with joy and shock.
I told him that when I get back to the United States, that I can easily shop for children's book to help build their collection, and he said that the children would love to have access to more books.
They are interested in stories about family, children, animals, history, science, etc.
One of their favorites is a picture book about Patagonia and Antarctica because they love to see the foreign landscapes and the pictures of animals.
They can hardly believe such exotic places exist, and were beside themselves when I told them I had actually been to those icy, glacier-covered places.
**If you or anyone you know have extra children's books that you no longer need, feel free to funnel them to me and I will take responsibility for shipping them to Cambodia.
This is an ongoing endeavor for as long as the school is in existence and I retain my contacts in Cambodia.**
Hope for Cambodia
Of all of my warm and wonderful interactions with people in Cambodia, it was the ones with the children that most affected me the most.
I interacted with hundreds of children—beggars, orphans, students, workers for family businesses, disabled, maimed.
One afternoon, I saw a young girl crumpled and crouched at the foot of a bridge.
Her skin, features and body were mangled, maimed beyond the ability to lead a normal life. She radiated almost inconsolable sadness.
I asked Vey if he knew what had happened to her and he said that she had been burned but he didn't know how or why. It took me days after seeing her before I could process my shock and grief enough to cry.
In spite of everything that they have been through, so many of the children still have such beautiful hearts and dreams for their futures.
While photographing sunset at the Bakong pyramid monument, a little deaf girl walked up to me and gave me a ring and flower that she'd made out of grass. We sat side-by-side on a rock and watched the sunset light on the pyramid together.
After awhile, we were joined by a boy from her village.
He was excited to practice his English with me. I asked him if he learns it in school and he said no, he learned English from speaking with tourists but that he plans to study Mandarin and Japanese in school.
He wants to learn multiple languages so that he can be an Angkor guide when he grows up. He was thin and poor. His clothes were simple and dirty and ragged like so many of the other children's.
But he had such light in his eyes and a steady, forward-looking gaze. I looked at kids like him and thought that there are many of them who are going to make it.
************
Night has fallen here in Luang Prabang, Laos.
I'm turning in soon, as I'm still recovering from the food poisoning incident from Friday night. I flew into Laos thinking that if I don't get better soon, I'll head to Bangkok early and see a doctor.
But the rest from the past couple of days has done me a world of good and the slow, healing pace of life in Luang Prabang should keep me on the mend.
Be appreciative, be generous and be open. I will do the same.
Love,
Leah
Leah C. Lau
Photographer, Writer and Philanthropist
Silent Light Photography
http://www.leahlau.com/
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Compassion and Angkor | First Impressions of Cambodia
Letter home from Cambodia on June 15, 2008
Dear family and friends,
I'm writing from Peace of Angkor Villa, my sanctuary in Siem Reap, Cambodia.
It's a gem of local, European and period architecture, hospitably owned by a professional photographer, Dave Perkes, who caters to like-minded folks http://www.peaceofangkor.com/.
And because this is Cambodia, it's only $15–$20 a night. A place like this in the United States would easily cost $100-$200 a night.
Sleepless in Bangkok
The bus trip from Bangkok to the Cambodian border was smooth, literally and figuratively. Paved all of the way, lush tropical jungle foliage was dotted with lily ponds, shantytowns and Buddhist temples.
In Bangkok, I stayed in the modest backpacker lodgings at the Donna Guest House.
I wasn't shooting in Bangkok, so while I ran errands to set up my overland border crossing into Cambodia, I locked up $5,000 worth of photography equipment in my $8 a night room (think high-end camping), and chuckled at the irony.
Sleepless in Bangkok my last night, I walked the bustling Th Khao San backpacker / expat / tourist district and feasted on a plate of street noodles and a spring roll for $1.12.
I got the hang of the Thai baht currency and getting around really quickly on my day-and-a-half stopover—comfortable just in time to switch countries, languages and systems!
The overall friendliness of the Thai people and the huge number of English-speaking expats and tourists proffering advice certainly made it manageable.
Cambodia: into the monsoon
On my shoestring expedition budget, I chose the cheapest (and most harrowing) option: overland on unpaved roads.
I skidded into Cambodia in the middle of a monsoon and the most chaotic border crossing.
The highlights and lowlights involved switching between multiple shuttles and buses, getting soaked through, blindly slogging through mud pond unpaved streets in an attempt to follow the confounding bus agency employees, language barriers, convoluted procedures, and unsettling discrepancies around visa protocol and rates.
Most of us passengers took it all in stride and laughed our way through—nothing a healthy dose of common sense and a good attitude couldn't cure.
It was an adventure of a lifetime but suffice it to say I'm rethinking the allure of overland border crossings and looking into flights for when I depart Siem Reap in the next week or so.
Other western travelers consistently warned me that the road and service conditions would deteriorate immediately once I crossed the Thailand / Cambodia border.
They suggested that instead of continuing on the bus, which likely would have busted shocks and would not be able to navigate the potholes, that I split a taxi ride with other passengers to Siem Reap, the hub for Angkor tourism.
Of my busmates, I got along best with a spirited trio of Norwegians whom I initially mistook for Americans: They had the slang down, having grown up watching the same syndicated '80s shows that were the foundation of my childhood in California.
With their dry senses of humor, they all had me in stitches: Chris, a quick-witted future pediatrician with wanderlust; Audun, a guitar-playing religion grad student; and Christopher, a former garbage man and kindergarten teacher, and an innate caregiver who looked out for me during the rough crossing.
The newly formed quad decided to share a taxi and brave the muddy, unpaved roller coaster Cambodian roads together.
Our driver didn't speak English and none of us spoke Cambodian. A cheerful and friendly guy on the outside, he passed motorcyclists and other cars with a proximity and flamboyance that literally made me squeeze my eyes shut in fear.
He also had a penchant for pulling over at random businesses, on lonely stretches of unpaved, monsoon-flooded roads and to answer nature's call without any forewarning or explanation to us as to what was going on.
The Norwegians and I usually stared at each other for a moment and then got out of the car to stretch our legs and keep an eye out for his unpredictable return. Facilities were uncomfortably threadbare or nonexistent.
In every direction, we just saw mud, rain-soaked monsoon skies waiting to flood more water onto us, and the occasional dot of green farmland or rudimentary shelter.
During the harrowing anchor leg four-hour journey, we traded travel war stories and shared in the creation of one of our best ones yet. I laughed in the boisterous moments and prayed in the silent ones. I also learned to count to 10 in—you guessed it—
Norwegian.
The seat of compassion
Witnessing the poverty in Thailand and Cambodia has been an eye- and heart-opening experience in compassion and empathy.
I am continuously astonished at the conditions under which I am watching people survive: bony, near-naked and sometimes naked children despondent and begging in the rain. Open-air tin roof or tree branch shelters with multiple families crammed inside. Piles of garbage. Mud, mud everywhere.
This is my first experience witnessing such extreme poverty and I knew that it would change me but the pain is palpable.
You want to help in ways that are meaningful and lasting, not just a handout for the afternoon. I've had my ears to the ground learning about local and international organizations that make real differences in education, safety and teaching leadership skills for the next generations of Cambodians.
My cultural guide is a magnanimous person named Vey Lav. I am grateful to Jennifer Davis for referring him.
Vey grew up just outside of Siem Reap and has spent his life observing the needs of Cambodians, learning Cambodian history, tangibly giving back to his community, and looking ahead to the future and how Cambodia can rebuild.
For many years, he has worked as a cultural guide and now aspires to start his own cultural tourism business partnered with nonprofits. He also helped found a local English language school for more than 100 impoverished children, called the ELMA School for Children.
Although Vey refuses to accept any payment from me for his guide help while I am here, I promised that in lieu, I will do volunteer work to help the school.
Star of Angkor
Angkor Wat is the star that brought me to Cambodia, one that served as my guiding light and perspective touchstone to push through the physical discomforts of being in third-world countries.
This morning, from the warmth and sanctuary of my beautifully appointed room, I awoke to a monsoon as heavy as the one I got caught in yesterday while crossing into Cambodia. Weather changes on a dime, so I geared up to spend my first full day in the Angkor complex.
It is, as so many people described to me, magnificent beyond imagination. No single photo can capture the beauty and energy here so I'm focusing on individual aspects.
While I make my way through the temples, I am awed and reverent. You can literally feel the care, consideration, devotion and thoughtfulness that went into the design and construction.
It is art, achievement, greatness, craftsmanship and vision. It is a spiritual paradise and a photographer's paradise.
The careful balance, astoundingly perfect reflections and synchronicity with the sun and seasons is called solar orientation.
The monsoon barely cleared today so what little I shot of Angkor Wat and the Bayon was in pretty flat light. Tomorrow onto Ta Prohm. The next day is Banteay Srei. I'll be here for at least a week.
Anything could transpire during that time, but no matter what happens with my photos, I am honored that I've had the opportunity to witness Angkor with my own eyes and to feel reverence here with my heart.
I'm signing off now to get up in a few hours for a 4:45 a.m. guide and tuk tuk transportation call time. In theory, it seems like such a good idea to catch the sunrise ...
Be compassionate, be kind and be happy. I will do the same.
Love,
Leah
Leah C. Lau
Photographer, Writer and Philanthropist
Silent Light Photography
http://www.leahlau.com/
Dear family and friends,
I'm writing from Peace of Angkor Villa, my sanctuary in Siem Reap, Cambodia.
It's a gem of local, European and period architecture, hospitably owned by a professional photographer, Dave Perkes, who caters to like-minded folks http://www.peaceofangkor.com/.
And because this is Cambodia, it's only $15–$20 a night. A place like this in the United States would easily cost $100-$200 a night.
Sleepless in Bangkok
The bus trip from Bangkok to the Cambodian border was smooth, literally and figuratively. Paved all of the way, lush tropical jungle foliage was dotted with lily ponds, shantytowns and Buddhist temples.
In Bangkok, I stayed in the modest backpacker lodgings at the Donna Guest House.
I wasn't shooting in Bangkok, so while I ran errands to set up my overland border crossing into Cambodia, I locked up $5,000 worth of photography equipment in my $8 a night room (think high-end camping), and chuckled at the irony.
Sleepless in Bangkok my last night, I walked the bustling Th Khao San backpacker / expat / tourist district and feasted on a plate of street noodles and a spring roll for $1.12.
I got the hang of the Thai baht currency and getting around really quickly on my day-and-a-half stopover—comfortable just in time to switch countries, languages and systems!
The overall friendliness of the Thai people and the huge number of English-speaking expats and tourists proffering advice certainly made it manageable.
Cambodia: into the monsoon
On my shoestring expedition budget, I chose the cheapest (and most harrowing) option: overland on unpaved roads.
I skidded into Cambodia in the middle of a monsoon and the most chaotic border crossing.
The highlights and lowlights involved switching between multiple shuttles and buses, getting soaked through, blindly slogging through mud pond unpaved streets in an attempt to follow the confounding bus agency employees, language barriers, convoluted procedures, and unsettling discrepancies around visa protocol and rates.
Most of us passengers took it all in stride and laughed our way through—nothing a healthy dose of common sense and a good attitude couldn't cure.
It was an adventure of a lifetime but suffice it to say I'm rethinking the allure of overland border crossings and looking into flights for when I depart Siem Reap in the next week or so.
Other western travelers consistently warned me that the road and service conditions would deteriorate immediately once I crossed the Thailand / Cambodia border.
They suggested that instead of continuing on the bus, which likely would have busted shocks and would not be able to navigate the potholes, that I split a taxi ride with other passengers to Siem Reap, the hub for Angkor tourism.
Of my busmates, I got along best with a spirited trio of Norwegians whom I initially mistook for Americans: They had the slang down, having grown up watching the same syndicated '80s shows that were the foundation of my childhood in California.
With their dry senses of humor, they all had me in stitches: Chris, a quick-witted future pediatrician with wanderlust; Audun, a guitar-playing religion grad student; and Christopher, a former garbage man and kindergarten teacher, and an innate caregiver who looked out for me during the rough crossing.
The newly formed quad decided to share a taxi and brave the muddy, unpaved roller coaster Cambodian roads together.
Our driver didn't speak English and none of us spoke Cambodian. A cheerful and friendly guy on the outside, he passed motorcyclists and other cars with a proximity and flamboyance that literally made me squeeze my eyes shut in fear.
He also had a penchant for pulling over at random businesses, on lonely stretches of unpaved, monsoon-flooded roads and to answer nature's call without any forewarning or explanation to us as to what was going on.
The Norwegians and I usually stared at each other for a moment and then got out of the car to stretch our legs and keep an eye out for his unpredictable return. Facilities were uncomfortably threadbare or nonexistent.
In every direction, we just saw mud, rain-soaked monsoon skies waiting to flood more water onto us, and the occasional dot of green farmland or rudimentary shelter.
During the harrowing anchor leg four-hour journey, we traded travel war stories and shared in the creation of one of our best ones yet. I laughed in the boisterous moments and prayed in the silent ones. I also learned to count to 10 in—you guessed it—
Norwegian.
The seat of compassion
Witnessing the poverty in Thailand and Cambodia has been an eye- and heart-opening experience in compassion and empathy.
I am continuously astonished at the conditions under which I am watching people survive: bony, near-naked and sometimes naked children despondent and begging in the rain. Open-air tin roof or tree branch shelters with multiple families crammed inside. Piles of garbage. Mud, mud everywhere.
This is my first experience witnessing such extreme poverty and I knew that it would change me but the pain is palpable.
You want to help in ways that are meaningful and lasting, not just a handout for the afternoon. I've had my ears to the ground learning about local and international organizations that make real differences in education, safety and teaching leadership skills for the next generations of Cambodians.
My cultural guide is a magnanimous person named Vey Lav. I am grateful to Jennifer Davis for referring him.
Vey grew up just outside of Siem Reap and has spent his life observing the needs of Cambodians, learning Cambodian history, tangibly giving back to his community, and looking ahead to the future and how Cambodia can rebuild.
For many years, he has worked as a cultural guide and now aspires to start his own cultural tourism business partnered with nonprofits. He also helped found a local English language school for more than 100 impoverished children, called the ELMA School for Children.
Although Vey refuses to accept any payment from me for his guide help while I am here, I promised that in lieu, I will do volunteer work to help the school.
Star of Angkor
Angkor Wat is the star that brought me to Cambodia, one that served as my guiding light and perspective touchstone to push through the physical discomforts of being in third-world countries.
This morning, from the warmth and sanctuary of my beautifully appointed room, I awoke to a monsoon as heavy as the one I got caught in yesterday while crossing into Cambodia. Weather changes on a dime, so I geared up to spend my first full day in the Angkor complex.
It is, as so many people described to me, magnificent beyond imagination. No single photo can capture the beauty and energy here so I'm focusing on individual aspects.
While I make my way through the temples, I am awed and reverent. You can literally feel the care, consideration, devotion and thoughtfulness that went into the design and construction.
It is art, achievement, greatness, craftsmanship and vision. It is a spiritual paradise and a photographer's paradise.
The careful balance, astoundingly perfect reflections and synchronicity with the sun and seasons is called solar orientation.
The monsoon barely cleared today so what little I shot of Angkor Wat and the Bayon was in pretty flat light. Tomorrow onto Ta Prohm. The next day is Banteay Srei. I'll be here for at least a week.
Anything could transpire during that time, but no matter what happens with my photos, I am honored that I've had the opportunity to witness Angkor with my own eyes and to feel reverence here with my heart.
I'm signing off now to get up in a few hours for a 4:45 a.m. guide and tuk tuk transportation call time. In theory, it seems like such a good idea to catch the sunrise ...
Be compassionate, be kind and be happy. I will do the same.
Love,
Leah
Leah C. Lau
Photographer, Writer and Philanthropist
Silent Light Photography
http://www.leahlau.com/
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
