*Bed where a prisoner (in this case a “VIP”, a member of the former ruling party) lay shackled to the bed, tortured until finally executed at the Tuol Sleng Museum, Phnom Penh, Cambodia*

A visit to the Tuol Sleng Museum and the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek

Jenne Raub April 20, 2015

The Tuol Sleng Museum is located in an old high school. That's because when the Khmer Rouge marched into Phnom Penh on April 17, 1975, they swiftly converted the high school into a detention center that would come to symbolize many of the great horrors that took place during the Khmer Rouge's reign until the Vietnamese invaded in January 1979. So that when you enter the compound, the first thing that strikes you is not the grim horrors that took place, but wondering what it must have been like to attend high school in Phnom Penh during peaceful times, picturing teenagers coming in and out of the shuttered classroom doors carrying books and lunches and hopes and dreams.

But as you move from room to room, you realize how quickly things can turn on a dime, how one wooden desk can be quickly transformed into a work station for an interrogator, and how all the other furniture can be removed to make way for torture facilities and imprisonment. It is, after all, just a building.

A funny thing happened on the road to Kampot

Jenne Raub April 18, 2015

I was bouncing up and down in a tuktuk along a road outside of Kampot, my shirt glued to my back, the relentless sun beating off the orange dirt and the metal railings of the carriage, the only relief from the oppressive heat found in the slight breeze caused by moving through the air at a snail's pace. Maybe this country actually sucks, I thought, angrily glaring at a dusty shop set up in the open part of a home contructed of corrugated metal where a pants-less little boy stood lethargically watching the world pass by.

We passed another shack where a mother was bathing her naked child by pouring a bottle of water over him. The child squirmed with glee as the water fell over him, while the mother chucked the empty bottle into a pile of litter nearby.

Maybe I actually hate it here. This question had been percolating in my brain since arriving in Cambodia and finally surfaced now. Because unlike other places I've visited, it hadn't exactly won me over at first sight. I started racking through the countries and cities I'd been, trying to remember how they first made an impression on me; I had instantly loved Portugal and Italy and Hungary, was smitten with Madrid and London and Buenos Aires and Melbourne; had been swept away by the scenic beauty of Chile, Kyrgyzstan, the Alps, and, closer to home, the landscapes of Wyoming and Maine. Even India, as challenging as it can be, made an impression where the ultimate takeaway was one of being charmed -- once you got past the culture shock and despair and peoplepeoplepeople everywhere, it had a kind of mystique that made you want to discover more.

*Being rescued/transported to Damskal Village on the other side of Koh Rong, Cambodia*

Something like a Koh-Rong-men-on

Jenne Raub April 13, 2015

There's been a bit of a delay since my last post -- but what can I say? I arrived in lovely Otres Village at a place called Mama Clare's, which is a collection of little bungalows up on stilts perched over Otres River, run by a super awesome British woman named (you guessed it!) Clare. It's about a 10 minute bike ride to Otres Beach, so for three glorious days, I hunkered down here and did what the British would describe as "fuck all." (Sorry for swearing, Mom, but given that this is a large expat community with tons of Brits floating around, it's the descriptor that seems the most apropos.)

So yes, for three blissful days, my daily agenda was something like this: unlock bicycle. Pedal bicycle past the various hippie boho enclaves in the village to the beach. Lock bicycle. Find a nice beach bar to buy a bottle of water, or mango smoothie, or pad thai, or beer. Lounge in a paddasam chair for an hour or three. Stare at the ocean. Get up, meander in the waves down to another beach bar. Repeat, until the sun began to hang low to the horizon. Saunter back to bicycle. Unlock. Pedal slowly in the warm orange sun back down the red rocky roads to Mama Clare's, where I'd find beers and supper and expats waiting. It's been a good scene.

I did it all for the Sihanouk-ie

Jenne Raub April 7, 2015

All travel, in a way, is a form of masochism. Why else would we fly halfway around the world, hoist a heavy bag on our shoulder, and submerge ourselves into unknown languages, customs, currency? Sure, after time a little cultural assimilation is natural; we find ourselves naturally dropping a "s'il vous plait" upon ordering, we know to politely queue (or throw elbows), we find ourselves no longer fumbling through foreign coins and cash, proudly prouding the right notes almost instantaneously.

Everyone's threshold for masochism is different -- that's why for some, two weeks in Paris can be long enough to send anyone longing for the familiar routines at home, and others are ready to get down and dirty checking out the hotspots of, say, Rwanda for months on end.

A visit to the Tuol Sleng Museum and the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek

A funny thing happened on the road to Kampot

Something like a Koh-Rong-men-on

I did it all for the Sihanouk-ie

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