A LEADER OF MEN

Day 27, April 17^th

We aren’t moving too fast this morning.  No need to.  I have already laid out the plans for the day and there is no need to rush.  Breakfast.  Beach.  Dinner.  Done.  That’s right, I said beach.

Ahhhh, yessss.  The Beach.  After the past couple of weeks in the cities, I am more than ready for the white sands and blue waters of the coast.

A pretty good view.

I know, the name Cambodia doesn’t exactly elicit thoughts of umbrella-dotted beaches and lazy days listening to the waves crawl up the sand and roll back out to sea.  Believe me, you are missing out.  Sihanoukville is just that, a beach town.  This is one of the more picturesque beaches I have seen.

Just above the row of water-front umbrellas lies restaurant after restaurant ready to bring you anything you desire from a Tiger beer to a mango smoothie to fresh grilled seafood.  I’m gonna dig this.

We make it down to one of the beach side restaurants for a quick breakfast.  It’s the usual.  I gotta say, frying eggs is not their thing here.  It always comes drenched in grease.  Literally.  When we first arrived in Southeast Asia the kids were ordering like it was an I-HOP and giving specifics about how the eggs should be prepared.  Over easy.  A little runny.  Not too hard.  Confusion.

They know two things when it comes to eggs on a western breakfast here.  Fried or scrambled.  And if it is fried, that basically means the eggs are going skinny dipping in a vat of grease and not drying off when they get out.  They will literally slide across your plate there is so much grease.  One full month starting off each day with a plate of grease and a side of egg has an effect.  It wreaks havoc on your digestive system.  I’ll leave it at that.

Grease ingested.  Coffee consumed.  Beach time.

We find a couple of umbrellas with lounges and set up camp.  With the Khmer New Year just ending, this place is quiet.  Hardly anyone out here.  Perfect.

An even better one.

I can’t say this enough, you hear Cambodia and you think jungle, war, Black Panther Beer, Angelina Jolie’s son.  You think anything BUT beach.

However, the sun is out.  The blue sky is gently dotted with a few clouds.  The sand is white.  The breeze is soft.  And the water from the Gulf of Thailand is cool.  This is what you want when you dream of that beach getaway.

I easily settle into relaxing.

Mom, easily settles in to relaxing.

Dad, he’s a good sport and gives it a try.

There is no escaping them.

We order up some fresh fruit smoothies and lay back and enjoy.  I toss on my ipod, scroll to Jack Johnson and close my eyes to relax.  This is absolute heave…EXCUSE ME MISSA, You buy bracelet from me?  Foot massage?  Very hairy chest missa, I fix for you?  Shrimp?  Fresh fruit?  Remember me for later, OK?  You buy from me later, OK?  We friends now!

This SUCKS!!

The beach hawkers are everywhere and relentless.  Selling everything.  But they don’t make the hard sell this early in the day.  It’s more of an introduction, a meet and greet, if you will.  The best thing to do this early is to just say ‘no’ unless you see something you want to buy right then. 

Mom commits the cardinal sin in interacting with hawkers while lounging.  She doesn’t say “no.”  She says “maybe later.”  “Maybe later” is basically a contract to them.  And make no mistake about it, they will be back to collect.  A couple of the hawkers, kids mostly, even throw out the pinky swear.  They know the routine and they are very good at it.

Not too long after the hawkers leave, Patton gets restless.  He often does when we are relaxing and we knew this would happen.  He heads off and walks up and down the beach.  Very little relaxing for him.

A young girl giving mom the hard sell.

The rest of the morning and early after noon is spent lounging, dipping in the ocean, flipping over and back over, an occasional massage, a few purchases from the hawkers, several mango smoothies and MANY refusals to have my chest hair threaded.  I don’t know why, but they wouldn’t let that one go.  Believe me, I’m no Magnum P.I., but they kept wanting to “fix” it.  Every time I said no, they would ask about my head.  Where did you leave your hair, missa?  I left it in my 20s.  Thanks for reminding me.  So much for relaxing.

As early afternoon approaches, the hawkers realize it is time for the hard sell.  The sun will be going down, people will be heading off to dinner and they need to close the deal now. 

About that time, Patton returns from his trek.  I would like to take this opportunity to say how much I admire Patton.  This guy is genuinely amazing.  The things he has accomplished in life constantly astound me.  The places he has taken our family to live.  Germany.  Saudi Arabia.  The places he has traveled solo to work.  Sudan.  Kuwait.  And all of the stuff he has done in recent years in Iraq and Afghanistan in helping to rebuild those countries.  He is always calm.  Collected.  Calculated.  He is truly a leader of men.  Always has everything under control. 

Except…

…when he is surrounded by several six-year-old beach hawkers shoving bracelets in his face and another lady giving him a “trial foot massage.”  He is squirming more than a tweener at a Justin Beiber concert.  This is funny.

Moving in on Patton.

All I can hear is …NO, I don’t want a massa.  Kevin!  NO, I don’t want any bracelets.  Kevin!!  Quit touching my feet!  NO, I don’t want any bracelets!  Kevin!!  Make them go away!!  NO, I don’t want any.  KEVIN!!  Pay them a dollar to leave me alone!!

I could help him out, I guess.  But, this is an extremely refreshing mango smoothie and I certainly don’t want to get in the way of him experiencing the local culture.  He can take care of himself.

A leader of men indeed. 

Once the hawkers finally split, the kids load up their stuff and head back to the hotel room.  I choose to take in a bit more sun while I can.  Bad call on my part.  A combination of bad decision-making and laziness have led to the worst sunburn I have ever had.  I have been out here for about 5-6 hours…and no sunscreen.  My initial thinking was I needed to start with a decent burn.  Once I realized I was too burned, I was too lazy to put on sunscreen or to get up and leave.  I think I am going to pay dearly for this.

Finally, I am ready to head back to the room and get ready for dinner.  But, I spot a hair band I want from one of the hawkers.  No, it isn’t for me.  The girl doesn’t have the color I want, so she sits there and makes a new one for me.

While she is making it a bunch of other kids come to chat and try to sell stuff to me.

The trolley.

One young girl in particular is upset.  Apparently, she feels that she and I are “friends” from this morning and I should be buying from her.  But I didn’t make “friends” this morning.  Great.  Now the tears are coming.  I try to chat with her and be playful.  She says I promised to buy.  I say I didn’t promise.  And then the switch flips and she hits me with it.  “I don’t want your f____n promises.  I want your money.”

WHAT?!?!

I don’t even have a response to that.  Now I’m dealing with a 6-year-old Andrew Dice Clay?  She is pissed!  That’s my cue.  I’m just gonna get the hair band and head back to the hotel.  Of course, she doesn’t let me leave without one last parting shot.  She tells me, “go back to your f____n country.”

They certainly master English at a really young age here.

My sunburn is killing me, but it is time to head out to dinner.  I heard about a restaurant, Chez Claude, that is a quick drive beyond the beach area that has great food and a trolley ride to the front door.  Sounds interesting.

That is a painful sunburn.

When we get there, we quickly understand why the trolley ride is one of the main attractions.  The trolley is raised up and down the steep incline by a farm tractor.

We must be the first ones there cause no one is manning the trolley.  The place doesn’t even look open.  Eventually, an old man walks out and after a few gestures and pointing we load up in the trolley and the tractor groans to life.  Surprisingly, a smooth ride.

The food is pretty good.  The sunset is beautiful.  But my sunburn is insufferable.  Time to head back to the hotel, bathe in aloe vera and spend the rest of the night regretting not putting on sunscreen.

Sunny side uply yours,

Higgins

www.kevinarmstrongphotography.com
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I NEVER SAID I WAS MATURE

Day 21, April 11^th

It’s our last day in Siem Reap and it is going to be an easy one.  After the usual start to the day, we are off to an artisan workshop.  They take kids who are homeless, uneducated, victims of landmines, disadvantaged for whatever reason and teach them the skills of woodworking, rock carving and other things to help restore the temples and make souvenirs.  It is really amazing what they are able to accomplish.  It's a pretty quick tour through the shop, especially since we don’t buy anything.  And we are out.

From bad...

I have talked the kids into taking a cooking class and we have a few hours before it starts.  Dad wants to feed the fish again.  The fish line the glass of the tank when they see his hooves coming their way.  His feet hit the water and they attack like piranhas.  And I’m on the other end.  Alone.  Mom is in the other tank.  While her feet are not the Thanksgiving feast that dad’s are, her feet are at least a Big Mac combo, supersized.  My feet don’t stand a chance against theirs.  For once, my shower gloves have done me wrong.

Time for the cooking class.  Looks like it will just be the three of us.  There are three main dishes, three starters and three desserts to choose from and we each get to do one of the three categories.  I actually enjoy the Cambodian food and want to learn some of it, so I choose the chicken amok, spring rolls and pea soup dessert.  Mom and dad don’t really like any of the Cambodia food, so they get the rest.  Mom gets chicken curry (she hates curry) and dad gets Cambodian soup (he hates soup).  I can already hear the complaining.

...to worse.

Right before the class starts we are joined by two girls who are also taking the class.  Mom immediately downloads the information.  They know everything about our trip within minutes.  She’s efficient.

Our teacher shows up and has a pretty tough accent.  Everyone else can’t really understand her, so I become the ‘translator’.  First thing is first, we all have to put on our aprons and chef hats.  I just want to learn the spices and cooking techniques, not play dress up.  We all have to wear the uniform.  The only positive note is that dad hates it worse than I do.

In her element.

The instructor starts slowly and explains everything well.  We start off with some chopping of vegetables for our main dishes.  Then we move to mixing some spices.  Now, the spices have to be mixed up and smashed to create a paste that is the base for the flavor of two of the main dishes.  It all must be smashed and pounded in a stone grinder.  Not easy apparently.  Mom has a go at it.  Then dad.  Then me. 

I’m sorry, I know it is immature, but you can’t miss the innuendo when watching this being done.  The hard, fast, up and down motion.  The pounding.  The beating.  Dad can’t stop laughing while I’m doing this.  Plus, it doesn’t help that the instructor is next to me telling me to “beat it harder.”  I can barely keep a straight face.  I know, I should be more grown up than this.  Apparently I’m not.  Given the fact that one of dad’s favorite movies and mine is KINGPIN, this really isn’t a shock.

During all of this, mom doesn’t see the resemblance.  She just thinks we are all having a good time and enjoying the cooking class in our apron and hat.  Ever the polite lady, she turns to the two other girls in our class and offers, “would you two girls like to help Kevin beat it?”  Her exact words.  Verbatim.  I’m done.  I can’t do this anymore.  Someone else can beat it.  Pound it.  Make paste.  Whatever you want to call.  I’m exhausted from the heat, starving and my maturity level is rapidly plummeting.

He is VERY excited about this.

Paste is eventually made and it is time to bring these dishes together and wrap it up.  The instructor isn’t as patient as she was at the beginning.  She’s rushing.  Just trying to get done.  Doing things for us.  Not teaching.  Oh well, I’m starving and not mature enough to be an accomplished Khmer chef.

The meals are finished.  We sit down and eat.  Dad hates his main dish.  Mom isn’t a fan of hers.  Mine is pretty good.  My fresh spring rolls are delicious!  Dad does like his fried spring rolls.  All is not lost.  After the meal, despite the suffocating heat, we wait for our free t-shirts that we will never wear.  Cooking class done.

What is that stuff in the middle?

After the cooking class, we kill time.  What are we killing time for, you ask?  Our next real massage.  After the last massage experience, you may be surprised to know that I am the driving force behind this massage.  I saw something on a brochure that I had to try…the 4-hands massage.  That’s right, two girls, and they will be girls this time, massaging at once.  I have never even heard of this in the states.  I gotta see what this is like.  Also, dad, newly empowered by his successful fish massages, is going to give it a try one more time.  He is getting a one-hour Swedish massage while mom and I are getting the 4-hands for two hours.

Do they have to watch?

Dad is a bit nervous.  He does not want to go through another tenderizer like the last two times.  He keeps imploring me to make sure the massage will be soft.  So, I tell the girls the rules.  He has to have a girl and the massage had to be soft.  I jokingly call him a big weenie because he needs a soft massage.  The girls all laughed. 

My massage is hands down the best massage I have ever had.  The girls have trained a lot to perfect this.  They basically divide your body in half, left and right, and simultaneously massage your body in unison, same rhythm, same intensity.  Two hours.  I feel like jello now.  Mom agrees, the best massage she has ever had as well.    We will now search out more of these massages for the duration of our trip.

I just remembered, when it was time for all three of us to go to our massage rooms, I reminded the girls one last time about dad needing a soft massage.  I patted him on the shoulder, pointed to him and told the girls, “Big weenie, biiiiig weenie!”  Wait a minute.  That probably doesn’t translate properly, especially considering all of the “extras” in most massage places.  Oh well, if they try to check, mom will be there to protect him.

Paste makingly yours,

Chez Kevòn

www.kevinarmstrongphotography.com
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