Helping Cambodia is like buying a beautiful broken mug

Last November, I was in Cambodia for about three weeks doing work for the Savong Foundation which I created to help a community in the northern part of that country. 

A few days before I made the long trip back home, I met a lady who was trying to make a business by selling Cambodian pottery.  She had a few samples for me to look at and I was very impressed at the quality and care that had gone into shaping each piece.  Since I love to drink coffee out of large mugs, I thought it would be perfect to have her make a custom design for my morning caffeine ritual. 

She was thrilled to have a new customer and I was excited about taking home a souvenir from a country that I had grown to love over the past couple of years.  We sat down and I told her everything that I wanted:

The size. 

The shape. 

The colour. 

And I wanted Khmer writing all over it.  I didn’t really care what the writing said.  I just wanted it to be covered in the beautiful Cambodian script.     

She smiled and nodded and took notes and I was convinced that she understood everything that I said.  I asked her how much and she told me $20.  It seemed a bit high (keep in mind that many Cambodians make $50/month or less) but I was happy to support her fledgling business.  I was told that it would be ready at least a day before I was scheduled to leave and we agreed on a time and place for the pick-up.  In my mind, everything seemed very clear and simple. 

A day before leaving, I contacted the woman because I had not yet heard from her.  Everything was fine she said but the mug wasn’t ready.  She assured me that it would be ready before my flight.  I was a little worried about this because I had other last minute things to do besides picking up a souvenir but Cambodians are such gracious and happy people, I told her that it wasn’t a problem and we would meet the morning of my departure. 

I couldn’t wait to see the mug.  The delay only increased my excitement.  On my previous trips, I had taken a few souvenirs back with me but this was something I could use every morning and in my mind’s eye, I saw exactly what it was going to look like. 

At the agreed upon time, I anxiously awaited the woman’s arrival.  She was late but not by too much time.  After spending three weeks in Cambodia, I was quite familiar with how fluid appointment times were and since I was still on Cambodian time, it really didn’t bother me.  She greeted with a huge smile and proudly pulled four mugs out of a large shopping bag.  I took a look at each one. 

None of them looked like what I had described to her.  None of them. 

I picked each one up.  There was no doubt that they were all beautiful.  Handmade.  Rustic stain.  And on the bottom was a Khmer signature.  They were large but not the giant size that I had requested.  I was disappointed but the woman was beaming with a smile and in some weird way, I felt like I couldn’t disappoint her. 

“I’ll take this one” and picked up the one that had an elephant head for a handle. 

“Would you like to take all of them?”

Did you ever read those books when you were a kid that gave you a choice at the end of the page?  If you chose one thing, it would send you off to a certain page and if you chose something else, you would flip to a different page?  The flow of the story would change depending on your decisions so you could read the entire book a couple of times and have several different versions. 

I felt like there were several different ways I could answer pottery lady and each answer would take me to a different outcome. 

For example: 

“You can take all your mugs and stick them where the sun don’t shine!”  Although this may have required some Khmer translation, the emotion behind the words would have gotten my point across. 

Or

“Are you kidding me?  I gave you EXACT details on what I wanted for a mug and not only did you NOT do what I wanted, you are trying to sell me FOUR mugs that cost as much as a luxury meal in Los Angeles!”

Or

“Well, I’ll take one but it isn’t really what I wanted so I’ll pay you $10 for it.”

Or

“They’re all so beautiful but I only need one.  Here’s $20.  I wish you the best luck for your business.” 

I chose the latter and handed over my money.  She was thankful and she told me that she hoped she would see me again when I returned to her country.  I assured her that I would keep my eye out for her—and buy my pottery somewhere else.

Actually, I only thought that last part.  C'mon, I'm a polite Canadian.     

Despite my crappy packing skills (I just throw everything in and hope for the best), the mug managed to make its way across the Pacific in one piece.  I’m not sure if I was so lucky but I was at least happy to stuff fast food down my gullet once again and have a really long hot shower.  You have no idea how luxurious a hot shower is until you’ve been deprived for three weeks.    

Several days after arrival, I pulled my mug out of the suitcase, cleaned it up and poured some steamy hot brew into it while I was weeding through my morning emails.  Moments later, I noticed that the coffee that was supposed to be inside the container was now outside of it and dripping onto the floor.  I snatched up the mug and lo and behold, the beautiful souvenir that was supposed to be useful and meet my design expectations was clearly leaking from a defective seam in the bottom. 

The older I get the more patient I get.  I think it’s from all those years working with animals.  I have learned that the more upset I am, the worse it gets for me and anger really doesn’t improve a situation.  Ten years ago, I probably would have thrown the mug against the wall and stomped on all the pieces.  Instead, I calmly emptied the remaining coffee into the sink, rinsed out the residue, cleaned up my desk and poured some stain remover onto the carpet.  I dried the mug and contemplated its fate.  I wasn’t going to throw it away; I paid $20 for the damn thing.  In the end, I stuck some pencils and pens in it and proclaimed it my Cambodian homemade pencil and pen holder.

And actually, I kinda like it.  It is far prettier than the hazy piece of glassware that I used before and as a pencil and pen holder, it hasn’t disappointed me at all. 

Working in Cambodia is very much like the story of this mug.  The Cambodian people are wonderful and NGOs (Non Governmental Organizations) such as The Savong Foundation want to see them succeed.  Yes, we can do lots of planning to make everything perfect but everything seems to cost more and take longer than what it should.  And the end result is usually not what was expected.  Should we be frustrated and angry and give up?  Of course not because that doesn’t help anyone.  A better approach is to be flexible, open and explore other possibilities within this unique culture and then something good will usually happen.  Therein lies the reward and everyone goes home happy even if it means using a big Korean Starbucks mug for their morning brew.

The Savong Foundation is dedicated to helping the communities of northern Cambodia.  Please visit us at our website www.savongfoundation.org for more information.  

Karaoke in Cambodia

There were many great experiences while I was in Cambodia but the one that took me by surprise was my first visit to a Karaoke club.

That night, I was with my Cambodian friend.  We had just finished a good dinner and he asked me what I wanted to do with what was left of the evening.  I remember telling him that I wanted to go somewhere quiet and talk.  Maybe with some music.  But nothing too loud.  My days in Cambodia were very busy and by 8pm, I was usually sleeping standing up.  I wasn’t in the mood for anything too exciting but my mood apparently didn’t matter since my friend knew exactly what he wanted to do all along.  And he wanted to sing. 

We pulled up to the karaoke building and the first thing I noticed was that there were large numbers of very young, well dressed women lounging around at the entrance.  They gave me some curious looks and the first thing I thought was that my friend was taking me on a side trip to a brothel.  In Cambodia, sometimes it is fun to see where things will go so I dutifully followed my friend up some large stairs where a sturdy older woman who kinda reminded me of a worn-out gym school teacher ushered us into a smallish room.  She talked to my friend briefly in Khmer, sprayed some air freshener which was probably called Mist of Cheap Cambodian Whore and she left.

The room was not in good shape but when the lights were lowered, it didn’t really matter.  There were large stains on the carpet, there were dark patches of suspected mold on the walls and the fabric couches had tears and cigarette burns.  But the room was nonetheless inviting.  There was a large TV screen, some coffee tables where beer and snacks were efficiently laid out and a large pool table.  Neon lights were begging us to be “Happy, Happy, Happy!”  I plunked myself down on the couch and waited for the next thing to happen. 

As I soon found out, the karaoke rooms are private.  Apparently fights would break out if too many Asians were competing over the same song book.  I can’t imagine someone kicking someone else’s ass over a Brittney Spear’s song but I suppose anything is possible on this side of the world.  But when I say private, I don’t mean that there aren’t other people.  Two younger girls dressed in uniform came in and started setting up the karaoke machine.  Another girl came in and started to open the beer.  A friend of my friend arrived and I thought that everyone was there that was going to be there.  But boy, was I wrong. 

The door opened and about twenty very scantily clad women were paraded into the room.  I didn’t dare ask how old the youngest was (maybe I should have) but the oldest didn’t look any older than 21.   Now I’m not exaggerating when I say that they were all beautiful.  Cambodian women have a very exotic look and at that age, they are stunning.  Dressed in their cocktail dresses, it was like I was suddenly the judge on a Miss Cambodia pageant.

 

“You have to pick one”, my friend said. 

“You’re kidding me”, I replied. 

I wasn’t really sure what the protocol was here.  My first thought was what in the hell was I getting myself into?  My second thought was that I only had about $20 in my pocket and I had no idea how much the girl was going to cost.  Or the Karaoke room.  And my third thought was there was no way I could choose.  I have a hard time deciding what clothes to wear in the morning.  There was no way I could pick out something as serious as a fake date for an evening. 

I looked down the lineup.  Some of the girls looked at me but most acted very indifferent.  Very cool.  Very professional like they had seen everything (and maybe had done everything) a million times before I had gotten there.  I wanted someone who looked fun and there were a couple that caught my eye.  I figured that if I were going to be in this awkward situation, I wanted someone who I could joke around with and dance with and …

“How about that one?” I said to my friend. 

“She’s ugly”, he said without hesitation.  I later found out that none of them could speak English so I guess the insult landed on deaf ears. 

“Then you pick out one for me.” 

I obviously wasn’t good at picking out choice Cambodian meat (which was how they were presented and NOT how I felt about them) so I decided to leave it to someone who had apparently better taste.  My friend went over, grabbed one by the hand and brought her back to sit with me.

She looked at me, smiled very shyly and clasped her hands on her lap.  I asked her what her name was and she, of course, had no clue what I was saying.  This was going to be tough but then I remembered that my iPhone had a little app that translates English into Khmer.  I pulled out the phone and tapped away.  I found out her name was … something.  I can’t remember what she said but I have a hard enough time remembering names anyway.  Then I asked her everything on the app.  Where she lived.  The directions to the airport.  I counted from 1 to 10 and told her that it was a sunny day.  She smiled and laughed but I think deep down inside she thought I was a moron and was probably hoping that I had more than $20 in my pocket. 

I’m a nervous drinker.  Whenever I’m in strange situations, I tend to drink more than I should.  This isn’t by design but it does loosen me up and calms my nerves.  In this situation, the funny thing was that every time I took a drink, my date had to drink too.  And we had to clink the glasses and stare into each other’s eyes like we were madly in love or something.   The other funny thing was that the beer was bottomless.  In other words, as soon as the glass was emptied by a mouthful, a host rushed over and filled it back up.  So you never know how much beer you’re drinking.  Very smart for the karaoke business but no so smart for the dumb foreigners who don’t have an off switch for drinking.  If there is alcohol in front of me, I tend to drink it.  And it can be any alcohol.  Strong or weak.  Whisky or wine.  I’ll suck it down.  Thankfully in this case, it was Angkor Beer which is great tasting and not especially strong.  At least initially. 

The music was fired up and the lyrics scrolled across the screen.  My friend jumped up and belted out an obvious Khmer love song.  If you have ever been to an Asian karaoke bar, you know what I mean when I say that the karaoke videos are amusing even by themselves.  You really don’t need the added entertainment of hearing your friends trying to hold a note.  The actors in these cheesy videos are required to have two “looks”; they either look they are in complete lust with each other or they look like they have been torn apart and this forsaken love has left them tortured forever.  And the backgrounds seem so arbitrary.  I remember looking at one video in my drunken stupor and thinking, “why in the hell are these lovers in Istanbul?”  Recognizing that the background was indeed Istanbul was a proud accomplishment for me at that hour in the evening and I mentally patted myself on my back.    

I got the feeling that my date was hungry because the host came over with some packages of “something” and my date looked at me with big eyes and pointed at the snack.  I nodded yes and she eagerly ripped it open and spilled the contents on the plate.  I wasn’t sure what they were.  Small and round and moist and very pale.  She stabbed one with a toothpick and aimed it at my mouth.  I opened up (like a good little baby) and she stuck it in.  I’m not sure how to describe the taste.  A little garlicky.  Maybe a little fishy?  It was soft and squishy.  An acquired taste which I quickly acquired because she proceeded to stick more down my gullet at every opportunity.  I think she was being polite.  She was starving and didn’t want to make it look like she was eating without me.  The host came over with some more snacks but these ones didn’t look as appetizing.  In fact, they looked like larvae in tomato sauce.  Did I eat them as my date forced them upon me?  Hell yes!  I really can’t say no.  I simply made a mental note to be on high alert for any intestinal grumblings.  Getting hit with EBD (Explosive Butt Disease) in Cambodia can happen at any moment but usually there are at least some initial warning signs. 

You don’t have to ask me twice to sing especially with a group of people who don’t speak English or barely know it.  I went through the songbook and picked out songs that I would never sing in a million years back home.  Kesha.  Yes, I will admit it.  I sang Kesha because what happens in Cambodia stays in Cambodia unless you spill all your guts out on a public blog.  I think I did it pretty well because it got everyone up dancing and if you can’t dance to Kesha, then you really haven’t drunk enough.   

As the evening was winding down, I got the nagging feeling that I actually had to pay my date.  I was certainly not under the illusion that I was so charming and attractive that I was going to get away with a freebie.  And getting mouth fed like a baby bird and getting smiled at every five seconds was not going to be cheap.  I pulled out my wallet.  Yep, the $20 was still there and sadly had not multiplied itself since I had last checked.  I snuck over to my friend and asked him how much I should tip.  He told me not more than $5 and $3 was appropriate if I didn’t have enough money.  I looked over at my date.  She was with me for about three hours and my friend was asking me to give her less money than what it costs to buy a venti frap at Starbucks.  I couldn’t do it.  I felt like she deserved more for putting up with my goofy crap.  I asked my friend for change and he gave me two $10 bills and I went back to my date and gave her one of them.  She folded it up.  Clasped her hands together.  Gave me a polite bow and disappeared out the door.  As quickly as that, she was gone.  

In a weird way, I felt cheated.  (Maybe she did too?)  I think I half expected her to give me her email address or exchange phone numbers.  Or give me a big kiss.  Or whisper in my ear what she could have done for more money.  Leaving like that was like getting a band aid ripped off.  The lights came up and the illusion was over.  I remember the same feeling at my high school dances.  Okay, everyone go home.  The party is over and pretend like you don’t know each other again. 

When we were leaving I saw my ex-fake-date by the front door.  I looked at her and she looked at me.   She didn’t look down and held my gaze.  But I couldn’t interpret it.  Was she being polite?  Was she as curious about me as I was about her?  Was she just being professional and giving me a last taste before hooking up with the next guy that came around?  I don’t know.

But the fact that she made me linger one last time probably means she is just being good at what she does.

Even so, I wish her well.