It’s a sunny warm morning as I write this blog post; one you might expect from Burkina Faso as it leaves its winter in late February. With clear skies and a temperature of 29 degrees and rising we’re settling in for a classic Burkina day. You may be thinking, ‘we get it flora, we’re in England where its cold and drizzly and you’re in Burkina where it’s warm and beautiful, stop showing off’. But my description of the warmth is merely a precursor to this blog, a set up you might say. For what is to come next is somewhat surprising. To set the scene: 2 o’clock on a Saturday morning and I wake with surprise and panic. My fan, which usually sends me a quiet breeze, has become incredibly loud. Embarrassingly so - I’m worried I’m waking up the whole house with my need for cold(er) air! Something’s gone into overdrive, the mechanism has flipped and it screams bloody murder as it wafts me. I jump up to turn it off. Even I, let alone anyone else, can’t sleep with this racket. Off it goes, but the noise continues. After a thorough examination, I blearily make my way out of my room and peer through the sitting room door. Shock fills me as I realise what’s making the noise: Yes, readers, you may have realised by now: it was raining! I am told in the morning this is utterly irregular, this never happens in February in Burkina Faso – and of course it had to happen on Saturday 24th February. It might not be a big day for you, friends, just like any other Saturday, but for us … the biggest event we have planned for Kabeela just so happens to be on Saturday 24th February. ‘Sanitation Day’ – 250 villagers are gathering to clean up Guilougou of it’s plastic waste, we are doing a collection, and afterwards have a feast with talks from the Mayors office, the Director of the Environment of Ziniare, and an awareness raising with the volunteers, to finish up we have a movie under the stars. As I peer out the door thoughts run through my mind: considering the likelihood of us cancelling or postponing, and damning our luck that this should happen today, because nobody is going to turn up to an event in the pouring rain. I make my way back to bed and bump into Benjamin, Kabeela’s project manager– we live in the same house. He’s getting his drying clothes out of the rain. ‘Just our luck’ I moan, he replies with a grin and I stumble back to bed somewhat confused. As the rain continues, I fall in and out of sleep, praying for a ceasefire and trying to plan for the next day: we could postpone, but we’ve bought mountains of food which will go off, we’ve organised equipment which we have to return, we’ve told everyone the date and time, it’s hard enough getting everyone together in the first place if we changed it now it would be mayhem, nobody would know what’s going on, we might have to cancel, all this planning will go to waste … bright and early I knock on Benjamin’s door – I need to clear my head and get some advice from a local. ‘What can we do Benjamin, ‘is it going to stop’, and I state my biggest worry: ‘Nobody is going to turn up.’ Because of course in England if you planned a ‘Sanitation Day’ in your village, and then it rained all night and morning no one would turn up. To my questions Benjamin steps outside into the rain, a minute goes by as I wait in confusion. He turns, the verdict: ‘This is perfect’. Surprise hits me for a second time in one night. And of course, it is perfect: the temperature has dropped from the high to low 30s, the clouds have created cover from the baking sun, and the water has weighed down the dust meaning no more sweeping dust clouds. This is in fact the best thing that could have happened. As the Burkinabes say, if it rains on the day of the event ‘God has blessed us.’ And what more could I ask for than to be blessed by God. Once more Burkina has taught me about perspective (and not worrying so much about the weather.) And people turn up, and the day goes to plan, and I sit under the stars and clouded moon listening to the unintelligible Moore comedy being projected and the giggles of the audience, calmly content as I’m reminded of an English summer evening.
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Planning, organising, working, leading, building Kabeela. That’s what kept me busy over the past two weeks. As I’m sure some of my readers will know, a great way to get to know a countries people is to work with them. So, while doing all of the above a month has passed by and I’ve learnt so much more about the Burkinabes. With a team composed of six nationals and five uk’s and a deadline to produce our team plan, we are thrown into work immediately, saving the get-to-know-you’s for breaks and birthday parties - there happens to be two within the space of a week. It’s safe to say that we work in different ways. As I mentioned in my last blog, here time is polychronic – deadlines are more ‘guidelines’, explanations become convoluted and thoughts are expanded despite a time restraint. While the UK team tend to give capsulated thoughts that can be digested without too much debate. Added to this is the restriction of language, most of the Burkinabe speak simple English and the UK’s speak no French. My counterpart, Patrick, and I take charge of translation – me with some broken French! Tensions grow in our group as we push forward, playing a tug-of-war in working styles. But with some language classes and the celebrations we ease the tension and recognise the strengths of both ways of working. As a group we identify the value of analysis and time keeping, and attempt to keep both in tandem (although sometimes in the heat, time reverts back to its natural polychronic state). Our task: A 3-month team plan consisting of S.M.A.R.T objectives*. Sounds simple enough. We have to plan every activity which we must achieve within the three months. Ok. We must plan every activity input and output. Hmmm. We must decide exactly how many people we will impact. And here’s the kicker, We have three days to do it. *Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic, Time-Bound Right, here’s where my project manager brain clocks in. Because we have 11 people who only know so much about an organisation, and a limited time to make an impactful plan which works towards an achievable and sustainable goal. Let’s start from the beginning then – the beginning of Kabeela that is, we can’t talk to Mama Kabeela, the president, as she’s in Ouagadougou. Let’s go to the archive room. … There’s good news and there’s bad news: The good news is we definitely have one S.M.A.R.T objective for the plan. The bad news, the archive room is somewhat … disorganised, a major administration activity is in written in. Next plan, let’s talk to Benjamin, the project manager, financial officer and ‘yes-man’ for Kabeela. As an ex-ICS volunteer, he knows what we need, and explains Kabeela’s history. The short story is Mama Kabeela set up the organisation in 1997 after seeing the inequality in her village. It has supported women by empowering them to generate income through the manufacturing and selling of soaps and body butters. Great. Now for the future. What is Kabeela’s vision. Benjamin has that as well, ‘why didn’t we come to you before!’. For 2019: "The Kabeela Women's Association Guiloungou with dynamic members, educated in the sense of personal development and literacy, is fully autonomous and has as such an appropriate infrastructure and important sources of income that ensures its independence and visibility" Now that’s specific, and I hope achievable. As a group we break this vision into five categories: Members Development, Independence, Visibility and Awareness, Infrastructure, and Sources of Income. And from this foundation we spend three long days expanding this vision into objectives, into activities, into inputs, into outputs. Patrick, Benjamin and I work long into the nights reducing our many ideas into the essentials, the tasks that will be sustainable for Kabeela, the key point being its business plan. We finally put these into a calendar to see if its achievable and it’s complete. With positive feedback from the project partner and ICS, the group is excited to get started on our ambitious plan. As am I! It’s been a long time coming, but here is my first post from Burkina Faso. As you may have deduced from my delayed start to this blog, internet is something to be desired when traveling around Burkina, as I have been doing for the past 2 weeks. From team leader training to visiting my Host-Family for the next 6 months, to greeting and training the volunteers, I have been here and there, and I am now finally settled in the wonderful village of Guiloungou, Ziniare, Burkina Faso. So, first impressions: it’s hot, its dusty, it’s windy. But it is so much more. Originally called Haute Volta, Burkina Faso was renamed thus in 1984. Its translation is ‘Land of the Upright People.’ And from my first impression it’s not hard to see why. Everybody is incredibly welcoming; you can, nay, you must say Good Morning – excuse me – Ni Wineega, to everybody you meet/pass in the street/pass on your bike. Included in this (when on foot) is a shaking of the hands. If you think Britain is the land of handshake – well I’m sorry my dear, you are utterly wrong! Burkina is the true land of the handshake. What continues after Ni Wineega, is a series of questions, about how you are, how is your family, how is your mother, how are you siblings, how is your working going. Let me translate … ME: Ni Wineega RANDOM CHAP I’M PASSING ON THE STREET: Wininj Kibare M: Laafee, Laafo RCIP: Laafee, Za Ka Ramba M: Laafee RCIP: Toum Kibare M: Laafee RCIP: La Fo Ma M: Laafee … it continues. All while shaking hands. But here, unlike Britain you are not shamed for your handshake grip, oh no. It is relaxed and friendly, like the people. No need to clench someone’s fist until one or both participants have lost the feeling in the tips of their fingers. This isn’t a Macron/Trump style showdown, although the timespan is similar. It is warm and welcoming, and always necessary. Also unlike Britain, there is never an awkward decision, shall I go for a shake, a hug, a fist bump, a kiss of the cheek, two kisses, three …. You get the idea. Here, if ever in doubt, go for a handshake. Even if you can’t shake the persons hand, you can shake their wrist, a normal practice when someone is doing the washing up. Once your greeting is over, you are on your way, until another one. No wonder everybody is always late here. That’s something I’m certainly learning to get used to. TIA – time in Africa – is not a myth my friends, it is real, it is out there, and if you live in Africa, there is no escaping it. And although this may seem disrespectful to whomever you are meant to be meeting or whatever it is you may be planning to do, in fact it is the opposite. So much value is put on the community, on the social relationships, that being late is a necessary part of being part of a community. For the sake of the project I plan to leave my house half an hour early to get to work, and I live next to the organisation! Now don’t get me started on Good Bye’s …. Bilfou. I'm sitting at the top of Mount Batur. It's 5:30 in the morning and the sun is rising magnificently. I know what your thinking: Flora has mastered the skill of levitation and time control, and with these skills she has taken herself to the top of an active volcano to watch a sun rise. Unfortunately the only time control was setting my alarm for 2am and the only levitation miracle was me actually getting up at that time. But it happened. I crawl out of bed, wondering if it's going to be worth it and take my ride to the bottom of Batur, which I shall climb in complete darkness to see the miracle of day. Guides are a must, I'm told there is a Mt Batur Mafia that doesn't let you hike alone, an extortion which I find slightly hilarious, so a group of four of us are grouped together with a guide for the walk. After an exchanging of names and handshakes we start our trek. And blimey we are speedy. Subconsciously as a group we've decided that we are going to get up there as fast as we can and with as little breaks as possible, and in team spirit we make it up the first hike, despite pitch black and rocky terrain, very quickly. 'Here we are, well done'... But it's cloudy and disappointing and Team Trek are having none of it. 'To the summit!' we chime (guides often don't want to/think people don't want to go the whole way up). But we do. And the summit trek is difficult. It's steep and gritty, and we are fighting gravity doubley as we slip and slide in the sand-like-lava-rock-mush. But it's doesn't dampen our spirits us, and soon the summit is ours. And suddenly the two in the morning levitation is all worth it. Because up here, with this view and that sunrise, it does feel like I've levitated. It's absolutely sublime. Clouds surround the lower section of the mountain that we appeared from and the sun raises it's head, a red orb, welcoming me to day. An hour is spent just taking in this beauty. And then it's along the crater edge, a way back no one seems to want to venture. With its tiny path, burning rising steam, and steep drops, it's not somewhere you want to trip, which makes the booby traps of loose lava rocks and sandy gravel path a real treat. But it is a treat. It's wonderful. Astounding views fill my head and a satisfying feeling fills my gut, they overpower the shaky feeling in my knees. Our descent is rocky, in many senses of the word, and intuition is a key tool here when stepping on a path that can't take my weight. But it's all worth it. It's great. A sleepy journey takes us by beautiful rice fields and villiages back to Ubud. What a morning. Now to bed. Ubud is blissful. There is so much to explore. Over the past days, in between writing angry emails to my estate agent, I have filled my time with walking in the blazing heat, skirting around cooled galleries and museums, strolling around the market, dance lessons, cooking lessons, ceremonies and dances. At this low season the only annoying thing are the taxi drivers strewn about the street shouting 'taxi! motor! transport!' at me. No, I don't need transport, I've got legs, and feet on them, and paths before me. These paths take me to wonderful places. Off a main road of Ubud I find more beautiful rice paddies. All in different a states, some newly worked, some newly growing, some ready to pick, which can only be done on a certain day of the month. These paths take me through the life of the market, budding with sellers ready to take me to the cleaners. And too to the Neka and Arma museum, both full of Balinese art which once again a shows the inspiring spirit of this beautiful land. Another takes me to the Puppet and Mask Museum, a huge and slightly eery collection of, you guessed it, puppets and masks. The walk there is long and hot and well worth it for this incredible collection. On these paths I find leaflets for cooking courses. Not the tourist information, 20 people to a class, $40 for two hours kind of course; but one on one, meet you by the market at 8 kind of courses, where I'm shown the ropes of Indonesian cooking in Putu's family kitchen. Like I say, we meet at the market, which is a different sight in the morning than the sarong selling afternoon. Vegetables and boiled fish and flowers are everywhere (mum you would love it). Putu is a natural here, she goes to her usuals and takes me down paths I've never noticed before. Then off home we go, and there I meet her family, her mother proudly proclaiming to me that she is 70, and showing me photos of her husband and children and grandchildren. It's lovely, and the food we cook is bloody fantastic. The rest of our time is spent chatting, about Putu, her family, her culture, her country; and mine as well. Our lives are very different, a Balinese couldn't go away for more than a week she says, 'otherwise they'd miss a ceremony' she says. So I guess two months and ten days is out of the question then. We talk about the corrupt government, how kindergarten (or kinder garden as she says it) is meant to be free, but they often have to pay for it. My anger at our government, at it's corporate corruption and petty politics, seems wholly different to Putu's basic worry for the education of her children. Still, it's wonderful to learn from such an open person, and after jotting down the recipes I'm on my way. My path of dance lessons closes, sadly, after I'm taught the welcoming dance (the most basic, my teacher kindly points out). I'm glad to practise in a corner when a version of the welcome dance happens at a ceremony I attend. That's where another path leads. Down to Champuang, where the two rivers meet, is a temple. And there is a four day ceremony, people from all over Ubud attend when they can. It's magical here. Orchestras of traditional Balinese music play over each other. Peering into the prayer area I can hear the God-like tinkle of the sharp bell that sings over the priests instructions. Women file in balancing beautiful decorated boxes of offerings on their head. They sit in groups and pray together. The priest and helpers finish the session blessing everyone with holy water. It's beautiful and tender. And social. It's very social. Praying together is the start of it. The musicians don't quietly sit and play, they chat and laugh together, their words nearly drowned out by their sounds. One player is climbed over by his daughter and her friend who giggle and steal food from the offerings. A teen asks her dad something while he is playing and then rushes off to her friend, dejectedly unsuccessful in her venture. Elders sit on a raised platform like the musicians platforms, pots of tea brewing untouched around them. They sit murmering in a circle, only the ones at the centre speaking. Others listen, some half listening, younger men at the edge hang their legs off the platform, bored and uninterested. It feels like a South-East Asian version of The Godfather. Large groups of women cook and laugh together, they bring food to the security/men with walking talkies who make sure all the Barongs (large puppets o f good spirits carried from the villiages) don't come all at the same time. They happily thank them and eat laughing with each other. This doesn't feel like just a religion, it's a culture, a community, an activity, and a way of life. No wonder they can't swan off for a couple of months. These journeys all around Ubud are wonderful, it is a place full of life and wonder if you find the right path. A pretty horrendous journey takes me to Bali. An early flight makes me think of sleeping in the airport meaning I won't have get ealrly expensive tuk-tuk and can save on a hotel room. I'm in the airport and at midnight it closes ... ah. A dodgy night commences ending in a very dodgy hotel room near the airport. But I get back there safe and on time for my flight. And now I am in Bali, Ubud. I find a lovely homestay with Madi - my hostess - who is an angel! And it's been an incredibly week spent here so far. Exploring the heat filled city during my days and filling up my nights with dances. This city is beautiful, it's calm and friendly, nearly everyone says hello and those who can speak mild English ask where I'm from and what I'm doing and explain how hot it is and how it should rain at this time of year. But it doesn't, it's incredibly hot in the day, and I just have to accept that I'm going to be sweating buckets walking in te sun, and sweating in the shade, and sweating at night time. It is hot. My first few days are spent doing Batik at a little artists house that I find in my explorations. It's lovely and quiet and hidden and I'm the only student for those couple of days. I draw a design in the first morning and me and my teacher sit in the shade, making broken English conversation while I attempt a skill that he is a master at. He is patient with me and even congratulates me. The smell of the boiling wax takes me back to when, as children, we did this very thing. It's a lovely smell and I sit in heaven for a couple of days, calmly working away at my piece. I proudly finish and say a warm goodbye to my lovely teacher, who I think is impressed by my work. On one of my days I find the Bianco Museum, an art gallery celebrating the work of the 'Dali of Bali'. - Bianco. There's a lovely bird garden that welcomes me into this serene place but the longer I'm there the less I like it. He talked of women as 'goddesses', (something that immediately sticks out to a feminist). And seems to be rather hypocritical as the museum opens to you with the giant religious-like statue of a male figure, where you have to walk under his buttocks to get into the museum. And nearly everything has his name on it - Bianco, Bianco, Bianco! I think I know who he thought the god is. While inside he paints women as eve - doesn't sound much like a goddess does it. And the kicker, every painting of a woman, and that is the majority, it a young naked one. Now I'm not a prude here, I don't shy away from a painting of a naked lady, but this is picture after picture of it. Standing, sitting, lounging, next to an apple, with a pot, even dancing, and I can tell you they don't dance topless! It's clear what part if women he liked best. So I leave pretty quickly thinking that this 'Dali from Bali' is a bit of a self-obsessed prick - sounds the original then. I take some time to go to the Monkey Forest - a 'must-see' in Ubud. I make my way in, and yes there are lots of monkeys, and lots of tourist buying bananas to make wonderful photographic memories with the monkeys. Looking past that, it is a pretty beautiful place and it has a very beautiful open theatre space looking out onto the forest. I sit for a while in the centre taking in the nature and slowly monkeys get rather friendly. Apparently I'm part of the furniture now and make a good seat. I spend the rest of my days exploring the streets, arts shop after arts shop, and walking up to the beautiful rice fields that surround the city. They are quiet and calm and all I can hear is the trickling of water, the wind in the trees and the lovely bamboo tunes that spill out from the wind chimes. Each direction I go in this place I see beauty. And that is the spirit of Bali, it's in the people that ask questions and smile at you, it's in the religion, it's in Madi, it's in the offerings (which are made daily around the city), it's in the art (most of it anyway), and it's in the dance. Oh, the dance! Utterly beautiful, every night is crowded with performances in temples and villages and museums. Every night the sounds of the orchestras spill out into the streets. Every night the dance fills my eyes and heart. It's entrancing. It's as strict and beautiful as ballet and yet so different. The make-up loud, it frames the dancer's incredible eyes - which are just as much a part of the dance as their incredible fingers that bend backwards and flicker like butterfly wings. There's different types, teens working in harmony (yet with their eyes closed). There's Lagong acting out scenes of brothers fighting or lovers flirting. There's young girls showing off in their mastery. There's scenes from the Ramayana, the beautiful Sita, and the faithful Rama, and the evil Rawana, and the spritely White Monkey take life in front of me. They prance about and enrapture everyone. One night there's two sisters and a brother, the older sister holding the little sister on her lap. They remind me very much of another trio of siblings I know. As they watch the older two giggle at the youngest who is entranced, she throws her arms about, copying the dancers, she tries to move with them, nearly falling over and being steadied by her sister. I can relate to that! There are trance dances where men sit in circles and circles, surrounding the Ramayana that is acted out. They chant along with the dance, 'Chaka-Chak' they chant, while a lone voice wails above there trance inducing drone. It's incredible. I take dance lessons to learn and get a fantastic teacher who plays Rama in some of the performances that I have seen. She's lovely and I find it hard to follow, being so different than anything I have been taught, but I just about keep up with her. One night I catch a ceremany that makes its way through the city. Crowds of locals follow the orchestra and giant puppets through the Main Street to a temple where they settle. I find myself a spot and take it in. Locals everywhere: some sit and watch the ceremany. Some sit and watch the music. Some sit and chatter with friends. Kids run about, others play on iPhone games, a few pull around their fathers demanding to be shown different parts of the madness. Old men sit smoking. Young men sit messing around with flood lights, giggling like the children. Women sit and pray, wailing and putting flowers in their hair. Some sit holding new borns that others coo over. Some wave at their husbands. Clouds of incense hover above us. Clashing of cymbals fill my ears. I walk home in wonder. Yesterday was full-moon, and me and Maria, a spanish lady that I've met, and Michelle, and American volley ball trainer who come along as well, make our way with a lovely driver and guide to the Holy Springs Temple. We go to be clensed in the natural water spring that makes it way up from underground and flows here. The full-moon, being a rather special day, means it's utterly crowded. Now this would be no problem, but part of the ceromany is that we bathe in the multiple fountains. To do this we get into the pools and wait - there is a huge line for these holy fountains. The first pool has fourteen, but you skip number eleven (otherwise you get too cleansed and loose your memory) and twelve (which will take you too hell - a formidable coincidence means that snakes come out of the wall at this particular fountain). The huge queues wouldn't be to bad at all. I don't mind waiting in water for two hours to be clensed. The only difficulty is that it's absolutely freezing. By the end my lips and fingers and feet are a different colour to usual, and the rest of the night is felt feeling pretty chilly despite Bali's hot temperature (see above in sweating section). But the cold doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would when first jumping in. That's because we are surrounded by excitement. Children are shivering, holding onto each other like little monkeys and screeching like them too when they are splashed. Couples cuddles. Elders laugh at our shaking. Family's giggle and wave. People ask us where we are from and what are our names. They tell me I should be used to the cold. The atmosphere is one of fun and beauty. Colourful flower petals float around me, sticking to my skin and sarong. And when it gets to the fountains, and having to dunk my head under freezing water, which until this point has only been up to my waist, I don't mind. It's lovely, the spirit of this place take precedence over the temperature of the water. It's warm with laughter and friendliness. As is Bali. 4:45 and we're out the door and onto a tuk-tuk to take us to Angkor Wat. It's dark and chilly and the city is weirdly quiet - the Night Market's all closed up - and the only people out are tourists... Onto the main road and we pass a tuk-tuk with some travellers in. We give them a wave - happy and excited to be going on this journey - and they wave back, sharing the feeling. And then we pass another, And another, And ... We get to the ticket station and here is a mass of tourists. We whip in and out weaving around the tours and off we go again to what I believe is a lake. I can just about see reflections and would no way be able to find my way to the temple if it wasn't for the pilgrimage of sightseers. We walk along with the crowd, which must be the blind leading the blind and end up in front of a lake that looks onto Angkor Wat. It's sight and reflection are a thing of beauty and I could probably stand here for hours in a calm and meditative state taking in the scene, but I can't do that, I can't fall into a state of calm because what surrounds me is not the tweeting of the morning bird or the rushing of wind in the trees or even settled quiet murmurs of onlookers in wonder, but camera clicks. Hundreds and hundreds of camera clicks. And flashes. And more bloody clicks. We were early getting there so happen to be close up to the lake but when I turn around five minutes later the lines have expanded into a horror film of a crowd with people with screens instead of faces. I attempt to endure the sound for the view but it becomes to much and we decide to skip any more sunrise and go into the temple. It's the best thing we could have done. We should have done it sooner! We should have completely skipped that lake photograph point. The temple is completely empty. It's silent with minor disturbances of a crunch on the grass outside or the skip of a young monk in a corridor. It's overwhelming beautiful to the point where I can feel my heart swelling in my chest and tears filling my eyes. The stone walls radiate spirit. The air is full of life. It's thick and I feel I'm moving through something more than a simple atmosphere. We step through this maze, up staircases and through window frames. I see beautiful flashes of pinks and yellows in the sunrise that we manage to see privately this time. After wondering about its empty wall we leave happy hearted and in awe of this stunning place. We go onto to the other temples of which there many and explore the wonders of these buildings (unfortunately never quite standing up to the experience in Angkor Wat Temple). I get rather jealous of Lara Croft (or Angelina Jolie - not sure which one) who can run about these beautiful places with ease and agility. By our last temple we are soggy and being bustled about by pink poncho wearing guides with their precious lambs. We make our way back to Siem Reap still feeling satisfied with our morning, even if it did slightly fizzle out. In the night we catch the market again, where I manage to replace my sad sandals which I mistaking left in a bag and have gone mouldy. And then we catch the Aspira dancing in a club down the road. It's silly and the girls can't stop laughing. Their hands are amazing, bent into mad positions, but what is more entertaining is what's happening between the dancers and musicians. Clearly some behind the club curtain scene leaves them in fits of giggles. It's silly and funny and nothing more than I can expect and that's our last night in Siem Reap. An overnight 'hotel bus' carries us away from the beach and back into the heart of Cambodia, our stop being Siem Reap - the home of Angkor Wat. It's a long and claustrophobic journey, with plastic mattresses and little bugs I won't name that Ollie kills with my flip-flop. The bus driver devotes his time to his horn (the bus horn that is) and the beds are not quite long enough for my legs, leading to a nice wake up call of cramp in the morning. But it does it's job and after a surprisingly sleep filled night we arrive in Siem Reap. After settling into the hostel and waking up a bit we take ourselves out to the Old Market. It's fringed with tourist stuffs - elephant pants and wooden spoons and sunglasses and knock off beats headphones. But as we make our way into the heart this dissipates and we find arteries of materials being sold and bought by locals and finally in the centre we have the chambers. The right ventricle is the cooked food and the left ventricle the wet food. It's the beating of the market, full of the locals picking up goods and paying and being pumped around and on their way. It's life. The best bit is finding our beloved coconut candy. A gem we bought only one pack of in Vietnam, only to realised how fantastic and how impossible to find it was once we had left. Lots were bought. After a stroll, a look into the craft making hub of the city, and a change, we plan to get some dinner in the Night Market and see some Aspira Dancing. The Night Market is beautiful and sprawls all over the centre of this small city - making it unrecognisable to is daytime counterpart. It's loud and its different sections have their own charm from the chic calm 'original' market to the mad 'pub street' and everything in between. After a meal it is to Pub Street we go to find the dancing and, alas, are turned away. There's a VIP in tonight - apparently we aren't cool enough to merit sitting with the VIPs. I think my traveling trousers and sweaty top are rather cool, thank you very much, security guard man! No matter, onwards we go trough the cocphany and back to bed readying ourselves for the early start to welcome the sunrise at Angkor Wat. Otres Beach is stunning. It's hard to resist just not leaving. We find a little bungalow on the beach and just relax. The water is literally footsteps away from us. And I wake up to the sounds of the waves and nothing else. It's quiet here - the atmosphere is chilled and the pace is slow. Electricity comes and goes - resulting in unknown light and fan patterns in the evenings. Everything shuts down around ten and the most party like thing to happen here is the Tuesday Trivia Night and the amazing Italian run pizza place. (I really didn't think I'd find some of the best pizza to be eaten in Cambodia - just beaten by Salisbury's Number 10 pizza) The days are filled with calm - bathing in the warm sea and strolling to the amazing food place about a mile and a half away, which happens to be in the tiny and only supermarket here. It's baking hot. My body just runs at a slower pace - it can't go any faster - like a hot computer. Everybody's the same. You ask for a drink - expect it to show up in forty five minutes. I asked for my charger (which I had left behind the bar) and ended up musing with a Grecian about the benefits of citronella oil for half an hour, I didn't get my charger in the end. The slow days turn into calm nights. Linked together by beautiful sunsets that are perfection. We just happen to be facing the perfect direction for a perfect sunset. In the evenings we find somewhere to eat along the beach front and watch the nightly storm. It's stunning. Lightning lights up the deep dark and shows us small boats and far away coastlines. The waves lull us to sleep. It's heavenly here. Checking in, I am currently sat looking out to a beautiful sea, open and clear, I've got a cool breeze in my face, and the waves in my ears. Before this I made a stop off in Cambodia's capital Phnom Penh. Comparing it to Saigon, Phnom Penh comes out on top. Despite it's dirty streets it has a charm to it. It's busy like Saigon, but it hasn't been as westernised: less flashing neon and free beer signs. After arriving my companion and I stroll around the city, catch a drink or two and make our way to the night market. A locals favourite, selling fake designer brands and pirated DVDs. It had two gems. The first a stage for performances, a strange set up ranging from traditional dance to crummy pop covers. We are welcomed with a rather lovely Aspira dance by some young girls and are serenaded by pop as we eat. And that is the second gem - the food section. A big square lined by food vendors - you take a basket and pick unusual looking things on stick which they will fry up for you. I'm unsure of what I eat and all I can do is hope for the best. In the middle of the square is a mass of mats. Here you abandon your shoes at the side and huddle around a condiments and napkin section. Food arrives and what ever it is it's fantastic. It's amazing here. Broken lights flash above us and a buzz surrounds us. Locals; young familys, groups of friends, and new couples huddle around their respective beacons of condiments and eat and laugh and look at us. It's a satisfied walk back to the hot hostel room. The next morning is spent having breakfast in and exploring Central Market. It's a spiders web of different a products. The centre selling jewellery and watches, light shines down illuminating our journey. Next layer out is art and garments, and odd mix of original paintings and copy-cat clothes. And then finally food. I'm surrounded by smells, fresh fish hang around me and slabs of meat fill counters that I avoid. Fruit and nuts line the outside. Dragon fruit, bananas, rambutan, bowls and bowls of jack fruit, and bags of almonds and kashews. And then the eating stalls. Oodles of noodles, and soups ready for eating, we founds these little sweet cakes, absolutely delish. We make our way to our final visit in the city and get caught in an ATM in terantial rain. It quickly wears off though and soon we get to our destination. The genocide Museum. It is astonishing what recent history has completely past my radar. A most recent genocide - one easily comparable to the halacaust, only it was about 40 years ago. This high school turned prison and torture house is pretty horrific and and it truly makes me wonder at human nature. The place wholly represents the spirit of this genocide, the mass destruction of the intellectual and skilled, schooling became complete prohibited and one third of the population of Cambodia was killed. A whole generation. On top of that a whole generation uneducated. Pol Pot was a destructive force and not even babies were out of the regimes reach. Pictures of torture, toture machines, head shots of victims, skulls, and vivid descriptions fill this creepy place. The fact that I can walk around and accept that one person has done this to another - not just a government giving orders, or leader making a decision, but a human doing this to another human, is incredible to me. I won't describe the sort of things they did. But it is eery walking round. It is astounding that this can happen. That humans can do this. Can act out these crimes. It is in-human. We leave quieter and heavy hearted and rush to our bus that whips is on a journey to Otres Beach (a suggestion by a excited couple we met - Ana and Veleros at the bs station the day before). The journey lifts our spirits. To see this beautiful country can do that! And although we arrive in the dark it's still calm and serene. Well ignoring the storm that is - it's stunning and bellows above, lightning forking out at sea. It's wonderful. Cambodia is. |