Greetings from the courtyard of our new Syrian home. Neil and I have successfully rented a beautiful old home in Bab el Ahmar (which means “Red Gate”) in the “old city” portion of Aleppo, Syria—very near The Citadel which is an impressive structure—first bits of which were built in 300’s BC, but which really took shape in the 12th century during yes, the crusades—complete with handy features to pour boiling oil on one’s opponents. Nice how the Pope’s edict to recapture Jerusalem drove increased militarization way back when, eh?
Our home is big for the two of us, and sparsely furnished (with a few rugs), so we’re knocking around in it a bit. We’ve christened it with the smell of garlic (bought about 1 pound of peeled garlic—hard to find any quantities smaller—and boy is it pungent!! Must find a jar to better contain it. . . ), a few plants, and our smattering of suitcase contents. Our landlord, Abdel Hay Kaddour, is a well-accomplished, well-known, and well-thought-of tour / travel operator who owns two boutique hotels here in the old city. This seems a somewhat conservative Muslim quarter. Our immediate neighbors are two families, two brothers and their wives—one family with four children, the other with five. They’ve asked through the children, I think, that I wear a scarf over my head and neck when I’m in their house (when the men are around)—in addition to me attempting to keep arms and legs mostly covered which seems to attract less attention in general. Communication is a very approximate science, since they speak virtually no English and my Arabic is minimal and stumbling at best. The kids range from 4 to 15 years, and aren’t shy so that helps with lots of engagement despite lack of language. They’ve brought their two white bunnies over to show us (who are now “mafi” (not there) so perhaps went in the soup pot? Not sure), have invited me for tea (not Neil), have asked if we’ll be here for Eid (celebration I think in early December), and have told me with conviction that if I will cover my head and pray, Allah will help me to get pregnant. (I know it’s well-intended, but how does one respond to that? “Really? You don’t say.” I chose, instead, to say “mumpkin” (maybe) with a big smile, and then proceeded to describe that I eat medicine in order to not get pregnant. Unfathomable here, it seems.)
Our house was pretty dirty but we opted to move in rather than wait for it to be cleaned, in order not to spend one more night in a hotel. Which meant that the next morning, Neil was kindly asked to leave for a few hours so the cleaning women could take off their black robes to clean more effectively. And boy did they ever. The hose was taken to every corner--even the shelves in the bedroom—along with scrub brush and soapy water. The landlord had asked that I (Yvette) stay, which felt awkward as I sat and read my book like a diva. But I also didn’t really want to dive in and scrub with them (maybe I am a diva). Anyway, it was a lesson in how differently homes are kept in various places. I would swept and wiped but been in a hubbub of dust all day, who knew that one could simply flood the place and then squeegee it? The place certainly could use a good dose of “demineralization” chemicals as the moisture in the walls comes out, displacing any paint or plaster and causing lots of sand/dust clumps on our shelves. Fortunately the bathroom and kitchen are mostly tiled. The carved medallions in the walls of our 20-foot-high covered courtyard, the stone staircase, the oriental lights, the numerous alcoves (including one that used to be an old well) all make for an inspiring space, if a bit dusty. And our bedroom has a restored (not perfectly, okay, but restored) decoratively-painted wood ceiling and walls, with patterned tile floor.
Our most-frequented-food so far is the $0.50 each take-away falafel sandwiches that can be found on almost every block. Yummy, though there’s quite a variety and we’ve found 1-2 stands that we like better than others. We also are pretty keen on foul-medemas, the large flat beans cooked with cumin and served with lots of olive oil, tahini sauce, and fresh tomatoes, onions, bread and salt. The idea is to dip the tomato and/or onion slice in salt, wrap it in bread, chew it and chase it with a spoonful of foul medemas. Also pretty yummy. We visited ”the” place to have it in Al Jdeida (which means “the new” and refers to the new as of the Ottoman era, I think 200-ish years ago), the Christian / Armenian quarter, where Abu (father) someone has been making it for 75 years. He’s quite cheerful about it, too. Makes one question the McDonald’s fast food model—the foul medemas, tomatoes, onions—the works--are in front of you within literally one minute of taking your seat. But then, McDonald’s has a higher turn-over rate I guess. There’s also lots of yoghurt here. Smallest portion we seemed to be easily able to buy was about 3 quarts of fresh, plain yoghurt. And lots of breads, bread-filled with cheese, bread with zatar (thyme spices) on it, bread with sweet cheese, more bread, flat bread, brown bread, big bread, little bread, puffy bread, sweet bread. We’re still trying to find a place with relatively cheap and good humus and eggplant / tomato sauce where we can buy it prepared—some of these things are quite an art to make, and we have nothing to prove.
Many people—especially young people, university students, etc.—have been very warm. Friday we went with the Aleppo Archeological Society on a 14-hour excursion to ruins west of the city. The 30-something group contained no other foreigners, but many people that spoke varying bits of English, some quite good, including archeology students, tour guides trying to improve their own knowledge, children who ran around and climbed on the stones, etc. Nice group from which we have several phone numbers and promises of personalized tours of the citadel. (As the students said, “We know it very well.”) And other people we’ve met / chatted with on the street (while trying to avoid overly friendly vendors in the overly-touristed souq) have invited us to their homes, shared their food, offered their help, showed us where to go, etc.
We’ve noted that, unlike Singapore, there are really very few “thou shalt not” signs here in Syria. Hmm. . . though there are certainly things that one shalt not do. But the only one that’s sign-posted (no smoking) is regularly ignored, even on the bus. Ah well, that album on Neil’s FaceBook page may have to wait until our next stop (oh, which may be France. Never mind, it may have to wait even longer.)
I’m finding that I feel a bit introverted here. Part of it is that little English is spoken, and my Arabic is good enough to get by, but with significant effort. Also, trying to get our house found and set up has been like an all-day, unpredictable scavenger hunt. Everyone tries to help and knows someone who knows someone who can show us a house, so just wait right there, we can go just now, do you want to drink tea? Or maybe sludgey coffee? Price? No, we don’t do that so quickly, let’s drink. And we’re never quite sure if we could ever find them (or the apartment!) again, so now’s the opportune time. And I’m also trying to communicate without being quite committal, because I’m not sure if I’m accepting a dinner invitation or simply saying thank you for the compliment. Argh. I think I’m also feeling the build-up of being “a foreigner, therefore on display” since March. While it’s all been good, it is a bit tiring to be different, notable, not one of us for such a long time—perhaps especially for someone like me who engages a lot with others and is pretty observant even with strangers. And to have been on the move so much over the last few weeks. So I don’t mind spending some quiet time behind my very high house walls. We even have a nicely-private rooftop courtyard.
I will, over the next week or so, try to find an Arabic teacher / tutor / friend who can help with navigating both language and culture. We have found a good friend in Ahmad (nearly everyone here is named Ahmed) Magribe, a tour guide we first connected with on the internet. He seems a trustworthy, conservative, family man—through whom we were able to go on the afore-mentioned tour. And our landlord Abdel also seems very genuine. Both men speak English very well, and are very accustomed to tourists and our wants / needs. Neil had crummy tummy and felt hot to the touch but was asking me to pile blankets on Friday night—at the time I thought that these two men and the local doctor Lonely Planet recommends would be my local if I needed to take Neil anywhere. Fortunately, however, he seems to be feeling much better though is willing to rest a lot just now.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Prayers in the Morning (by Neil)
Orion lies spread eagle; his dagger – so Shakespeare called it – hangs limp and to the left
The week lies pregnant as it enters the final sacred hours
The cantors’ arias echo and rebound and reverberate with sadness and poetry and supplication
Tens of overlapping songs issue from the minarets bathed in green luminescence
The tenor voices bounce off the citadel walls, they bathe my rooftop
The hour of prayer is ending, one by one the singers fall mute
Until only one voice sustains and soars on the breeze
The sun is not yet tingeing the sky, only stars and the light of my laptop compete with the light pollution
The laundry is drying around me – the desert air does this effortlessly
The birth of a new Friday is here – I manage to pick out to words of a sung prayer:
“ Allah Akbar” – God is Great
Orion slinks away to the prominence elsewhere– knowing these praises are not sung to him
The week lies pregnant as it enters the final sacred hours
The cantors’ arias echo and rebound and reverberate with sadness and poetry and supplication
Tens of overlapping songs issue from the minarets bathed in green luminescence
The tenor voices bounce off the citadel walls, they bathe my rooftop
The hour of prayer is ending, one by one the singers fall mute
Until only one voice sustains and soars on the breeze
The sun is not yet tingeing the sky, only stars and the light of my laptop compete with the light pollution
The laundry is drying around me – the desert air does this effortlessly
The birth of a new Friday is here – I manage to pick out to words of a sung prayer:
“ Allah Akbar” – God is Great
Orion slinks away to the prominence elsewhere– knowing these praises are not sung to him
Friday, October 16, 2009
Syria - 24 hours in
Today has been a full Damascene day in Syrian. It is our first. I have just sat with an old man, who was calling for his son repeatedly from the courtyard. His calls had become increasingly incessant and twice Yvette and I had witnessed the hotel staff try to quiet him – once harshly – as his voice escalated in stridency. I came downstairs and sat with him and eventually went over to hold his hand and murmur to him in English interspersed with a few Arabic words. He seemed calmer, but when one of the hotel guys came back over he whacked his cane at him. He was working to get out of his chair and motioned for me to help, so I walked with him across the courtyard to the office where he proceeded to whack his cane down on the desk… Fortunately he sat down and I took his cane away and he touched his nose to my nose – a familiar, intimate greeting that I witnessed a number of times between men - first in the Doha airport. He began to weep and held my hand over his heart, and we gave him a tissue and I then discovered he could speak some English. His son came shortly afterward and the three of us sat for another 5 minutes until I took my leave. He reminded me so of my grandmother who would become easily emotional without all her mental facilities or reasoning abilities to be able to have rational conversations with – that one needed to work to connect on an emotional plane. At 10 years old, emotional planes weren’t (and still aren’t) my strong point, but this evening was poignant for the experience and the memories it conjured.
The evening sky has come now and I have returned to the courtyard to type. Four men – including the old man’s two sons sit conversing over tea and a water pipe – occasionally bringing in a 5th person to their circle with a cell phone conversation. Several foreign guests are also having conversations in French and perhaps English – muted to me by the babbling of the fountain courtyard.
Syrian hospitality has been constant and frequent and deep. People have offered their language skills, their homes, their shops, their food, and their hand in friendship to us. We have met people from Iran, Iraq, UK, France, Lebanon and people from across Syrian towns – Damascus, Palmyra, Bosra, Allepo, and Hama. We have been invited to tea and coffee. We have been urged to visit, to stay longer, and to study the language. We have been warmly welcomed in the mosques and told the stories of Hussein and Hassan – grandsons of the prophet. We visited one of the most sacred sites of Islam today – the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. It is a place with a very long history – this site was once a temple to Zeus, it was used by the Romans, converted to a church by early Christians, became a shared space with Islam and Christianity later in history, and now is a mosque. It contains the tomb of Salhadin – the famous adversary of the crusaders – who is remembered for the mercy he showed people after his victory. The mosque is particularly dear to Shiite Muslims from Iran as Hussein’s tomb is here and we witnessed much weeping and singing and rhythmic chest thumping and kissing of the stones and the pillars at the site of his tomb. One of the Cantors/tour guides/Imam had a beautiful voice and sang the stories for at least 30 minutes to a group before they entered the tomb area. All of the women in this group were shrouded in black but with expressive faces that have seen much history – often the short stick of it has been theirs I fear.
We have enjoyed seeing the street hawkers – especially the country-fair like showman: The Turkish tea-seller, with his ornate metal backpack contraption, pouring out water into his cup from 2’ up and then tossing the water into the air like a water fountain, tossing and spinning the glass before catching it and setting it back down; The Spiro-graph man with his paper filled with arrays of tri-color 2” circles whipping out more as we watch; The vegetable super-slicer hawkers creating art from cucumbers, carrots, and potatoes; The whistling-balloon helicopters being shot up into the atrium before drifting back down to the pedestrian zone once the air is exhausted; The dancing dolls spinning in the lane; The ladies lining the cobbles by the mosque with piles of shelled walnuts. My eyes are full from the feast.
We spent most of our day in the Old City and Souk of Damascus. We have decided on Allepo (known as Haleb in Syria) as a base for our next two months. Yvette is amazing me with her Arabic linguistic skills. She is navigating beautifully the language and making friends left and right. I feel blessed to have some greetings and niceties at my disposal from marrying into Yvette’s family and the lingua franca they use. Merhaba, Enshallah, Hum-del-Allah, Salaam Aleukum, Mas Salaam, Shukarin, Kefiya – they are my starting point for interactions while Yvette chats up the locals I say “Hello. My name is Neil. What is your name? I am American. Nice to meet you. Goodbye. ” Pretty heady stuff I know, but it is a start, and today I tackled the number system and a few more phrases. I can add the Arabic Rosetta Stone (100 Syrian Pounds) to my computer… I wonder if that is a legal copy at the price of $2.20? Anyways we are committing to tackling this language more diligently than we did Lao, so hopefully the brain synapses will resonate well and be faithful to remember more than they forget.
Blessings all. From the Land of Paul, from the land of Hussein, from the “Axis of Evil”, from the ancient mud-wattled homes – we bid you the local goodbye: “Mas Salaam” (Much Peace).
The evening sky has come now and I have returned to the courtyard to type. Four men – including the old man’s two sons sit conversing over tea and a water pipe – occasionally bringing in a 5th person to their circle with a cell phone conversation. Several foreign guests are also having conversations in French and perhaps English – muted to me by the babbling of the fountain courtyard.
Syrian hospitality has been constant and frequent and deep. People have offered their language skills, their homes, their shops, their food, and their hand in friendship to us. We have met people from Iran, Iraq, UK, France, Lebanon and people from across Syrian towns – Damascus, Palmyra, Bosra, Allepo, and Hama. We have been invited to tea and coffee. We have been urged to visit, to stay longer, and to study the language. We have been warmly welcomed in the mosques and told the stories of Hussein and Hassan – grandsons of the prophet. We visited one of the most sacred sites of Islam today – the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. It is a place with a very long history – this site was once a temple to Zeus, it was used by the Romans, converted to a church by early Christians, became a shared space with Islam and Christianity later in history, and now is a mosque. It contains the tomb of Salhadin – the famous adversary of the crusaders – who is remembered for the mercy he showed people after his victory. The mosque is particularly dear to Shiite Muslims from Iran as Hussein’s tomb is here and we witnessed much weeping and singing and rhythmic chest thumping and kissing of the stones and the pillars at the site of his tomb. One of the Cantors/tour guides/Imam had a beautiful voice and sang the stories for at least 30 minutes to a group before they entered the tomb area. All of the women in this group were shrouded in black but with expressive faces that have seen much history – often the short stick of it has been theirs I fear.
We have enjoyed seeing the street hawkers – especially the country-fair like showman: The Turkish tea-seller, with his ornate metal backpack contraption, pouring out water into his cup from 2’ up and then tossing the water into the air like a water fountain, tossing and spinning the glass before catching it and setting it back down; The Spiro-graph man with his paper filled with arrays of tri-color 2” circles whipping out more as we watch; The vegetable super-slicer hawkers creating art from cucumbers, carrots, and potatoes; The whistling-balloon helicopters being shot up into the atrium before drifting back down to the pedestrian zone once the air is exhausted; The dancing dolls spinning in the lane; The ladies lining the cobbles by the mosque with piles of shelled walnuts. My eyes are full from the feast.
We spent most of our day in the Old City and Souk of Damascus. We have decided on Allepo (known as Haleb in Syria) as a base for our next two months. Yvette is amazing me with her Arabic linguistic skills. She is navigating beautifully the language and making friends left and right. I feel blessed to have some greetings and niceties at my disposal from marrying into Yvette’s family and the lingua franca they use. Merhaba, Enshallah, Hum-del-Allah, Salaam Aleukum, Mas Salaam, Shukarin, Kefiya – they are my starting point for interactions while Yvette chats up the locals I say “Hello. My name is Neil. What is your name? I am American. Nice to meet you. Goodbye. ” Pretty heady stuff I know, but it is a start, and today I tackled the number system and a few more phrases. I can add the Arabic Rosetta Stone (100 Syrian Pounds) to my computer… I wonder if that is a legal copy at the price of $2.20? Anyways we are committing to tackling this language more diligently than we did Lao, so hopefully the brain synapses will resonate well and be faithful to remember more than they forget.
Blessings all. From the Land of Paul, from the land of Hussein, from the “Axis of Evil”, from the ancient mud-wattled homes – we bid you the local goodbye: “Mas Salaam” (Much Peace).
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Singapore - Stereotypes falling fast
(by Neil)
Singapore surprises me – the open minded, me – the traveler, me – the simplifier, me the stereotypist…
The water is lovely tonight. The breeze and the boats and the MerLion’s spitting fountain conspire to ripple the bay. The clouds provide a canvas for the play of sunlight against the backdrop of gleaming glass and steel giants. They cast shadows in hues of grey and blue in the ripples which are punctuated by points of light from the camera flashes, the whirling construction caution lights, the spotlights on the bridge. At least 50 cranes sit idle, waiting for the morning shift of workers to reanimate them, but a pile driver drums across the bay sounding ominously of destruction rather than its opposite.
My neighbors at the outdoor Esplanade theater have a hundred stories in their dress and faces. The sitar player has just arrived and a small entourage of tech people walk up to the stage with him. A bright orange tank top illuminates its owner, and the short pink skirt nearby competes for brightest outfit. The lady and the man next to me are sure prize-winners in their respective long hair categories. She with hair well beyond her spine, and he with a flowing white belly-button length beard.
Night comes gracefully to the waterfront. The blues and yellows of the day are being pushed out by the steel greys and pinks of dusk. Even the pile-driver rhythm has fallen into beat with the concert sound-system. James Galloway is playing tonight in the theater behind us. Last night was Al Jareau, and Elvis Costello the night before. But we are here for the free Sitar Funk concert and the view and the company of diverse folks. A man resembling the Neanderthal on the TV commercials just walked past me with a superman shirt on – I wonder if he sees the irony.
Last night we wandered the Deepavali decorated Little India quarter that was awash with lights and garlands and veggie eats. I balked twice at the s$10/kilo price before buying 1 Alfonso Mango that I had heard about on NPR - described as the King of Mangoes and only recently approved for import to the USA (very yummy deep-orange flesh). Everywhere this cosmopolitan city has shown different faces – mosques, churches, temples, beaches, shopping, nature – we picked a wonderful red frangipani and drunk in its fragrance.
We are here now – Passport-less while we await visas for Syria. And it is good. None of the “DON’Ts” have impinged on us, and we are grateful for the cleanliness, the greenness, the variety, the selection, the multiculturalism, the arts, the quirky exhibits and lectures (“How to grow a Tomatillo”, “ Zap Your Stress & Transform Negative Emotions with Flower Remedies”), the friends, the English-Language friendliness that is Singapore.
Epilogue
The warm-up band was a youthful percussion group complete with gum-chewing, midriff-baring, vivacious girls and torn T-shirt, punked out boys. The Sitar Funk ensemble from Mumbai has exceeded expectations of virtuosity and acoustic pleasure. Yvette and Francis arrived both bearing munchies and sustenance which we chowed down between the two groups. A right pleasant way to pass the evening capped off by a stroll along the waterfront on a circuitous route to the MRT station and home to shower and be curled up with the laptop.
Singapore surprises me – the open minded, me – the traveler, me – the simplifier, me the stereotypist…
The water is lovely tonight. The breeze and the boats and the MerLion’s spitting fountain conspire to ripple the bay. The clouds provide a canvas for the play of sunlight against the backdrop of gleaming glass and steel giants. They cast shadows in hues of grey and blue in the ripples which are punctuated by points of light from the camera flashes, the whirling construction caution lights, the spotlights on the bridge. At least 50 cranes sit idle, waiting for the morning shift of workers to reanimate them, but a pile driver drums across the bay sounding ominously of destruction rather than its opposite.
My neighbors at the outdoor Esplanade theater have a hundred stories in their dress and faces. The sitar player has just arrived and a small entourage of tech people walk up to the stage with him. A bright orange tank top illuminates its owner, and the short pink skirt nearby competes for brightest outfit. The lady and the man next to me are sure prize-winners in their respective long hair categories. She with hair well beyond her spine, and he with a flowing white belly-button length beard.
Night comes gracefully to the waterfront. The blues and yellows of the day are being pushed out by the steel greys and pinks of dusk. Even the pile-driver rhythm has fallen into beat with the concert sound-system. James Galloway is playing tonight in the theater behind us. Last night was Al Jareau, and Elvis Costello the night before. But we are here for the free Sitar Funk concert and the view and the company of diverse folks. A man resembling the Neanderthal on the TV commercials just walked past me with a superman shirt on – I wonder if he sees the irony.
Last night we wandered the Deepavali decorated Little India quarter that was awash with lights and garlands and veggie eats. I balked twice at the s$10/kilo price before buying 1 Alfonso Mango that I had heard about on NPR - described as the King of Mangoes and only recently approved for import to the USA (very yummy deep-orange flesh). Everywhere this cosmopolitan city has shown different faces – mosques, churches, temples, beaches, shopping, nature – we picked a wonderful red frangipani and drunk in its fragrance.
We are here now – Passport-less while we await visas for Syria. And it is good. None of the “DON’Ts” have impinged on us, and we are grateful for the cleanliness, the greenness, the variety, the selection, the multiculturalism, the arts, the quirky exhibits and lectures (“How to grow a Tomatillo”, “ Zap Your Stress & Transform Negative Emotions with Flower Remedies”), the friends, the English-Language friendliness that is Singapore.
Epilogue
The warm-up band was a youthful percussion group complete with gum-chewing, midriff-baring, vivacious girls and torn T-shirt, punked out boys. The Sitar Funk ensemble from Mumbai has exceeded expectations of virtuosity and acoustic pleasure. Yvette and Francis arrived both bearing munchies and sustenance which we chowed down between the two groups. A right pleasant way to pass the evening capped off by a stroll along the waterfront on a circuitous route to the MRT station and home to shower and be curled up with the laptop.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Gongs and Throngs and Visits to Farangs (westerners)
(by Neil)
Too many meals eaten and too many kilometers covered and too many hours have ticked by to give a thorough accounting. The thought of trying to “catch up” my writing with my experiences is always daunting. So I’ll be scattershot and hopefully compress the adventure into a trailer- length version.
Ubon Thailand was un-touristed by westerners and lent itself to internet access, watching movies, indulging in Swenson’s ice cream and having a pizza party with friends. We rented bicycles for the week we were there and road about to and from the language school where our friend works. On the weekend we took an excursion out to a village where they manufacture gongs. In my mind I pictured these as being cast, but most of them were welded from sheets of steel and then hammered into their characteristic shapes. The gongs ranged from 10” to more than 10” across and were fun to beat on. I enjoyed watching the workers hammering them (alas without earplugs) into shape.
We headed out to the confluence of the Mekong and the Mun river which is billed as “the two-color river” as the Mekong tends toward reddish brown and the Mun towards greenish-blue. Where they meet one is supposed to be able to see this mixing, (best in April I read)… I didn’t see it, but it is an impressive amount of water.. Our destinations for the day were two waterfalls. One was particularly distinct for the way the water has eroded a hole that the falls pour through. I stood underneath the flow and took my shower for the week. The water was the perfect temperature for refreshment without shocking the senses. After an hour or so of playing about there, we went to another waterfall that was broad and terrace-like with big jumbles of stones at the bottom. We scrambled over these and posed for pictures before heading back into the city. 
The next day we ventured out for a quick excursion to a village that did bronze casting based on the lost-wax method. The people at the workshop were great at pantomiming the different steps that they followed to craft and cast the bronze. I bought a small cowbell as a souvenir or small gift for a teacher friend . 
We crossed the border into Cambodia overland at O’smach and did Angkor temples for two days. Because of dear friends in this part of the world we succumbed for a few weeks of lugging suitcases from one port to the next. Despite weariness that on-the-move travel brings, the rewards can also be great and Angkor lived up to its billing as a magical destination. The weather was perfect for us on day- one as we did a 43 km bicycle trip about the temples. We were well steered by our guesthouse manager along a path that suited us – avoiding crowds and seeing a variety of sites: jungle temples and shrines, two troops of playing monkeys (including one juvenile who decided to climb up my leg that I had to shoo off), the wall of Angkor Thom from the south gate to the west gate seeing only a few crews of workers as we biked along shaded by the jungle on one side with a view of the moat on the other, the enigma that is Bayon with its huge carved meditative faces on all the towers. We splurged that evening and took a $1 taxi down to the old market and ate a $20 meal at a yummy Khmer vegetarian restaurant – we know how to be decadent! That night the heavens opened up and the rain came down. The ground floor of the guest house flooded as did half the town.
We had saved Angkor Wat for our second day when we planned to hire a guide – which we still did but a bit soggily. Angkor Wat is resplendent even without blue skies and sunsets. We eventually had “bas-relief fatigue” and went out 15 miles to Bantey Srei – sometimes called the women’s temple. It is a miniature temple compared with many, but exquisite in the detail and intricacy of carvings. I took my favorite picture of the day here of a man with his yellow umbrella framed in the red laterite and sandstone doorway. 
Our tuk-tuk driver had been valiantly plowing through stretches with 8 – 10 inches of water on the road. He stopped at one point to ask if we wanted to see Cambodians fishing methods and we took some pictures and enjoyed watching the men casting the nets and the generally happy faces dealing with water everywhere. Yvette did note at a petrol station a man, his wife and 4 children piling off a motorcycle and they looked pretty wet and miserable – at least that is our projection of how we would have felt in that situation. 
We have arrived now in Phnom Penh. Six hours by bus with lots of people watching along the way including a cute, cute kid that the dad joked with us as we took her picture and asked if we wanted to take her with us to America. I wonder what would happen if I said “yes”? We declined but shared a banana with her and took another picture.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)