Graduation

During my thirteen years working in high school, I learned the significance of the graduation ceremony. For no other reason than my own regard for commencement, I was eager to witness the ISPP graduation. First a little background: from the director's remarks I learned that ISPP is only 14 years old. (Not a lot of time to establish traditions, but long enough to develop bad habits.) There were only 22 graduates. According to Jim, this is the last class before the enrollment of the school began to grow significantly. For example, there are currently 37 ninth graders and over 40 sixth graders.

Jim and Ev before the ceremony

In 14 years, the ceremony has become a series of speeches. (That didn't seem like a good thing to me.) Because there were so few graduates, everyone of them was given the opportunity to address the audience. (That seemed like a formula for disaster.) When Jim told me about the student speeches, Eveline added, "That's the best part." (I couldn't imagine.) I wondered to myself, if 22 speeches is "the best part," how painful would the "not the best part" be.

The agenda was pretty straight forward--principal's address, director's address, student council president's address, keynote speaker's address, 22 student speeches, a few awards, slide show, presentation of diplomas, recessional. You can see for yourself why I was less than enthusiastic.

Sure enough, the ceremony began with the processional. Accompanied by traditional Khmer music, the 22 graduates entered. I don't care if it's 22 or 220 graduates, Harvard or the Garden and Gecko pre-school, there is something about a processional that chokes me up. I guess it was the joy on the faces of the graduates and the pride on the faces of the parents and grandparents that reminded me of the dignity of the commencement ceremony.

With one of my sixth graders, Milly

Jim took the mike and delivered a beautiful reminder to the graduates of their obligations to those who supported them in their accomplishments. Earlier in the day Jim told me about his idea to have students use their cell phones during his speech. I tried my best to dissuade him, and as I listened that night I wondered if I had been successful. I hadn't. At his direction the graduates called their loved ones to thank them for their love and support. Damned if it didn't work. One parent dialed his son in Spain and walked to the stage so his daughter, the graduate, could speak to her brother. It was cool, to say the least.

With the director, Barry Sutherland

Before long the student speeches began. Because not every graduate chose to speak, I think there were 14 speeches--all of them except two were very short. All of them were heart-felt. Several were downright emotional. Some weren't the best, but like the old saying goes "You gotta take the good with the bad." ISPP kids are from all over the world, therefore many of the graduates addressed the audience in their native languages. Talk about emotional. Like Ev said, "It was the best part."

The ceremony lasted one hour and 45 minutes. Too long in my book, but then again I didn't have a kid up there on the stage. To the parents, grand parents and participants, I'm sure it felt shorter than that. All things considered, the program overcame its faults. I think I know why.

Paige, Milly, and Saveeta (all grade six)

Eighteen straight speeches is too many, but it didn't feel that way. An hour forty-five is too long, but it didn't feel that way. Why not? James Canavan. Commencement is his baby. Like every good parent, he loves his baby. He wants everyone else to love his baby, too. He poured his heart and soul into it. During his speech, you could feel his genuine affection for his graduates. On his face you could see his pride in them and their accomplishments. By the number of personal acknowledgments, you knew the street is two ways. He has altered the ceremony without destroying the "traditions" established in 14 years. (I did hear him wonder aloud what they will do about student speeches next year when 35 kids graduate.)

The ISPP commencement was dignified. It was classy. It was Jim.

Jim and Ev at the post-graduation party

Jasmine and Origami

Jasmine

At the International School of Phnom Penh, students are sorted into advisory groups called HomeGroups. My HomeGroup meets every morning when I take attendance and read general announcements to them. They also meet on Wednesday afternoons. The curriculum for the Wednesday meetings allows advisers (like me) a lot of leeway. During my first five weeks we discussed such topics as using the school's centralized computer system, writing reflection essays (which are required in Grade 12), and environmental issues (during the same week as Earth Day). This week the students asked permission to work individually (which was granted), and some of them had small group assignments which required them to meet elsewhere on campus. I think I had only five or six of my normally ten students at any one time.

HomeGroup students: Sorina, Yannick, Jasmine, and Hyun Ah

Because the group was smaller than usual, I canned the lesson plan and used the opportunity to talk with the students. Because I don't "teach" these students, because I only see them for ten minutes eight out of ten mornings, and because I have only had five extended lessons with them, I don't really know them (not like I know my sixth and ninth graders). I was glad for the opportunity to chat with them individually.

HomeGroup students: Rebecca, Sophany, and Ali

Enter Jasmine. Despite her western sounding moniker, Jasmine's given name is Eun Ji. Jasmine is Korean, and because of her heritage, she is quite reserved. Until yesterday, Jasmine never did more than respond when I talked to her. Let me back up. When the period began I overheard a short exchange between Jasmine and another person who referred to her as kim chee. I'm no expert on Asian insults, but it sure sounded insensitive to me. When she sat down, I asked her if I had heard correctly. We agreed that the comment was unnecessary (especially directed at someone as gentle and unassuming as Jasmine). Without making the comment more upsetting than it already was (or should have been), I changed the subject.

HomeGroup students: Virak and Yannick

In front of her was a book of origami, the ancient art of paper folding. Much to my surprise and delight, Jasmine began showing me the book. She offered it to me. I flipped through it. I showed her photos of advance origami projects and insinuated that she should make one for me. (Perhaps I should clarify that the book was for advanced projects like castles and multi-layered human faces.) Jasmine immediately responded that she was incapable. After three or four requests she could tell that I was purposefully teasing her. Each time she shook her head and repeated that she was not able to make the project. Finally, I smacked the book closed and said, "I am sick of your negative attitude! You should say 'Yes Mr. Thanner. I would be glad to make that for you Mr. Thanner.'" It could have gone two ways.

Tae Jun, HomeGroup's resident musician

Again I opened the book and selected some impossible project and asked her to make it. She said, "OK give me another chance." She said, "Yes Mr. Thanner. I would be glad to make that Mr. Thanner." It was a moment. Everyone laughed. At that point, she left her seat and sat next to me. She flipped through the book until she found the most simplistic project in the whole book--a six-sided paper ball. She said, "I think you should make this for me." I'm telling you it was a moment. Teachers live for these little tiny moments, which as they turn out are neither little nor tiny. Then almost as if it were scripted I said, "You must be kidding. I can't do that." To which she should have replied, "I am sick of your negative attitude. You should say, 'Yes Jasmine. I would love to make that for you.'" Instead she smiled quietly and said, "I think you can do it. I will get you some paper."

Take one guess how I spent the next hour. You got it. I cut. I folded. I inserted. I even gave up (a time or two). Seriously, I followed the dumb directions to the letter. I started with pieces of colored paper 2" x 1". By the time I finished cutting, folding, and inserting, the pieces were so small that my big ole fingers could not make the magic happen.

Jim on the mike at the weekly school-wide assembly

At 2:35 p.m. every Wednesday there is an outdoor assembly for all students. As I sat waiting for it to begin, Jasmine found me and asked about the project. I went to my room and returned with the saddest excuse for origami in the history of paper. I made a bunch of excuses and laid the tangled mess in her out-stretched hand. She said, "It's not so bad. I will fix it for you."

As soon as the assembly finished, she walked over to me with her hand out-stretched again, except this time there lay my little paper ball. "I can have this?" she asked.

Smateria

Almost as soon as I arrived in Cambodia, Eveline gave me a gift, the kind of gift that keeps on giving. It was a lunch bag, which I should add has been put to daily use. It has my name stitched across the top. It's awesome. That was the first time I heard the word 'Smateria.'

Smateria is a workshop and store, making and selling jewelry, fashion accessories, and home decorations. (That's right from their website.) Yes, there is a store , in which can be found many, many styles of tote and gym bags, purses, carry-alls, wallets, and you-name-it; all made from recycled "street" materials. Nets, plastic bags and cartons are transformed into stylish and useful creations. According to their catalog, during the last three years, Smateria has collected and recycled 24, 744 milk and juice cartons and 264 kgs of plastic bags, And, unlike many Cambodian recycling/trash collecting efforts, Smateria strictly prohibits the employment of minors.

But Smateria is so much more than that. Smateria is a for-profit business. But there is one huge distinction: Smateria's mission is to provide employment and job training to people who otherwise might never get such opportunities. They have hired 40 Cambodian managers and tailors, all on formal contracts with competitive salaries, health, and accident benefits (certainly not typical for Cambodia). Smateria often hires family members in an effort to develop vocational skills which can be passed from one generation to the next.

The first time I went to Smateria was on Ev's recommendation. Those who know me can accurately predict that I did not leave empty-handed. The second time I went was because I thought of a gift idea and knew the good folks at Smateria could show me lots of designs (and like I said, they would even personalize my purchase). The third and fourth times I went...oh let's face it, I like the store. I even got a "Welcome back, Sir" when I walked in and a "You very good customer" when I paid for my purchase.

Please visit the website (www.smateria.com) to learn more about Smateria. They ship world-wide.

Deja Vu and the Elephant Bar

Last Saturday evening, Jim, Eveline, and I were invited to join the ISPP guidance counselor and her husband for beverages. That was the same night as the ISPP formal dance (a.k.a. the prom). One guess where Jim was. Ev and I began the evening with Jenn, the counselor and her husband, Mike. About an hour before the prom was scheduled to end, Ev and I decided we would stop by.

Brent, Norak, Santiago, and Sopanha

The prom was held at the Royal Hotel, which is aptly named. A sprawling combination of hotel and banquet facility, the Royal Hotel is exactly that--royal. From the doormen to the clerks, the Royal is first-class all the way. After winding our way through a labyrinth of hallways, we found the dance going strong. Everyone seemed to be having a good time; even the principal who was using his time making sure questionable decisions didn't turn into regrettable ones. (Let me tell you, it was like being back in the saddle. I'm guessing that under-age drinking is a universal theme, certainly not one reserved for kids from Overlea High School where I spent the last nine years of my career.) Jim had warned them about drinking for weeks prior to the dance. He thwarted an "alternative" party arranged by several would-be graduates. He even called the parents of no-shows (which I thought was a great idea). The man was everywhere.

Nabilah and Holly

When Ev and I made our way to the Elephant Bar, the renowned watering hole located at the Royal, whom did we find? Our man, Jim, busy talking to a group of his students who were in the bar shooting pool. (Free pool tables are available at most lounges in Phnom Penh.) They weren't drinking, and thanks to Jim, they weren't going to start either.

The Elephant Bar features a gorgeous motif from which it gleans its name. In fact, elephant images abound--from wall hangings to statuary to candle holders. Perhaps best known as one of the stops on Jacqueline Kennedy's 1967 trip to Cambodia, the Elephant Bar still has the glass (replete with lipstick marks) from which she drank. (Mrs. Kennedy was in Cambodia to fulfill her life-long dream to visit Angkor Wat. I strongly recommend that you Google the name "Angkor Wat" if you are unfamiliar with it.) Her beverage that night was the "Rouge Champagne Cocktail," which was made from champagne, creme de fraise, cognac, rum, coconut passion juice, pineapple juice, lime juice, and creme de banana. In her honor, the drink was renamed the Femme Fatale.
Next Saturday the graduation ceremony will be held at the Royal Hotel. Guess where I'll be immediately thereafter.

Choeung Ek--The Killing Fields (Not for Young Readers)

This entry is not for young readers.

Located approximately nine miles from Phnom Penh, amid peaceful fields and pleasant countryside, stands Choeung Ek--commonly referred to as "the killing field." Between 1975 and 1978, this once longan tree orchard, became a place of ineffable atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge.

An estimated 17,000 prisoners from Toul Sleng (s-21) were executed at Choeung Ek. In 1980 teams of archeologists excavated 86 of the 129 mass graves. They were found to contain the remains of men, women, and children who were most often bludgeoned to death (so as to conserve bullets).

Central to the Choeung Ek memorial is a gleaming, modern stupa containing the skulls and other bones of over 8000 victims. Walking among the killing fields is a humbling experience. Small wooden signs with graphic descriptions attempt to convey the horror of lethal techniques employed by the Khmer Rouge.

After all it was only 35 years ago that Choeung Ek earned its notorious reputation. These days it is treated more as a tourist destination than memorial. Like so many other places, beggars, vendors and tuk-tuk drivers compete for attention on both arrival and departure. Children who know enough English to beg for dollar bills line the chain link fences along the perimeter of the property shouting their requests (then blowing raspberry noises when they are ignored).

The destruction of Cambodia and the genocide committed by the Khmer Rouge are well-documented. Killing fields similar to Choeung Ek have been located all over Cambodia. The estimated death toll is over two million.

Inside the museum (where photos are prohibited) there is a sign which reads:

We are absolutely determined no to let
this genocidal regime to reocur in Kampuchea.

Cong Ty 27-7 (Handicapped Handicrafts)

I had heard from Jim about a lacquerware factory in Ho Chi Minh City. I looked it up in the tour book and sure enough I found a listing for the Lamson Lacquerware factory address 106 Nguyen Van Troi St. (across from the Omni Hotel). It made the list. Duc took one look and immediately responded that the Omni was no longer in business, but he knew exactly where it used to be. As it turned out, the Omni used to be across the street from where the Lamson Lacquerware factory used to be! Gone in favor of a shiny new office building...ah progress. Oh well scratch that one. Instead I asked Duc if he knew a store that sold lacquerware. He thought about it, made a call, and announced that he had just the place.

The tools of the lacquerware artist
(notice the duck eggs)

At this point, short lesson in lacquerware might be useful. The art of making lacquerware (son mai) was probably introduced to Vietnam after the emperor Le Thanh Ton (1443-59) sent an emissary to China to investigate the process. Lacquer is a resin from the son tree which is then applied in numerous coats (usually 11) to wood (traditionally teak), leather, metal, or porcelain. Prior to lacquering, the article must be sanded and coated with a fixative. The final coat is highly polished with coal powder. The piece may then be decorated with a design, painted, or inset with mother-of-pearl. If mother-of-pearl is to be used, appropriately shaped pieces of lacquer are chiselled out and the mother-of-pearl inset. The process of producing lacquerware is demanding and results in exquisite works of art.

A partially completed lacquerware vase

Back to the story...we arrived at "a store that sold lacquerware" only to find a truly upscale art gallery. Before I knew which end was up, the proprietor was directing several workers to carry huge slate-based lacquerware works of art into the showroom for my perusal. I wanted to be graceful. I wanted to be respectful. Most of all I wanted to be back in the taxi headed to the next stop on the list. I am not sure how graceful I was, but we soon made an exit. I thought maybe I should just let it go. I should chalk it up to the language barrier. The lacquerware that I was talking about included plates and bowls and flower vases not super expensive art work.

I'm not sure how or why Duc thought of it but he remembered Cong Ty 27-7 the Handicapped Handicraft workshop. I am glad he did. Cong Ty 27-7 is government sponsored (think communist here) and provides gainful employment to severely handicapped people. They make lacquerware. The person who met us at the door gave me a detailed explanation of the workshop (because it was lunchtime, I could not see anyone actually working.) He showed me the work stations and answered my questions. The workmanship on the partially completed pieces was simply stunning.

A view of the showroom

The showroom was three times the size of the workshop and contained row after row of bowls, plates, vases, and wall hangings, exactly, I might add, what I was looking for!

Duc

Duc

On the morning of my first full day in Vietnam, I made a list of places I wanted to visit and things I wanted to do while I was there. I took my list to the concierge of my hotel and soon the topic of taxi rides came up. He sent me to the front desk in the main lobby. There I met Duc. Dressed impeccably in his suit and tie, Duc was the receptionist/clerk. I showed him my list which contained the names of three stores and one tourist destination. I asked him how much it would cost to rent a taxi (provided by the hotel) and go to these four stops. He told me that for 52 USD I could have a car and driver for a city tour with one stop. (Be reminded that this entire conversation took place in short, often-repeated and rephrased sentences. Duc's accent was challenging. Mine must not have been too much better.) I told him that the city tour sounded nice, but what I really wanted was to go to the four stops on my list. (What happened next is still a little blurry but...) I think we negotiated until it was agreed that for 52 USD the driver would take me to my four stops (because only one was a tourist stop) and narrate the sights along the way.

Ben Thanh Market

This all happened at 9 a.m. That much said, I handed Duc my Visa and he said, "Tour leave 2 p.m.." No, no, no, I said, I don't want to go at 2 p.m. I want to go now. "You have cell phone?" he asked. I told him I didn't but really didn't understand why he had asked. "You wait please." I waited. After ten minutes in the lobby, Duc appeared and informed me that the plan had changed. He would refund me 12 USD and I would get no tour. Instead the driver would simply take me to the places on my list. That was fine too. Again I waited.

The Reunification Palace (the only tourist stop on my list)

After twenty minutes a different man approached me and asked if I had a cell phone. I told him I didn't. This time he explained that when I left the market (think Russian Market) I would not be able to locate the driver, so I would need to call him with my location. (As it turned out calling wouldn't have done much good because the driver spoke no English.) I understood but that didn't change the fact that I had no phone.

There are an estimated 4 million
motorbikes on the streets of Saigon

Another ten minutes or so passed and this time I was approached by Duc, except he was without his coat and tie. "Hello Suh. I be guide for you." I gave him back his 12 USD and off we went. What happened was fairly evident: hotel management was hesitant to send me out with a driver who did not speak English and with no way to find him if I got separated from him. I think it is remarkable that they didn't just bag the whole request. I've got to believe that in the USA I would have had a simple choice: go at 2 p.m. when a guide was available or forget it altogether. I am certainly glad it didn't turn out that way.

Enjoying a delicious bowl of pho (beef noodle soup)
at Pho 2000 restaurant

Duc is a 27 year old son of a man who once served and fought as a member of the South Vietnamese army in the "American War" (as it called in Vietnam). Duc was a true gentlemen. When I asked him if he thought there is resentment toward Americans because of the American War his answer was pretty simple. No. He said that Vietnamese people (especially in Saigon, as Ho Chi Minh City is often called) seem to like Americans, in fact all foreigners. He told me, "We should be polite to visitors. You are guest here." As proof, on one of our stops I was asked by a teenage girl to buy a fan. I told her No thank you, but she was persistent. I repeated No thank you several times before Duc intervened. He scolded her and even reported her to authorities (who promptly whisked her away by the elbow). When I asked him what happened, he said, "She is impolite. She was rude to you."

Now that's what I'm talkin' about!

Next Stop is Vietnam

A vendor offering fruit to bus passengers

It started with a bus ride--my trip to Vietnam, that is. A ride on a bus designed for people who are 5'4" and 130 lbs. I'm that and then some, to say the very least. (I could almost feel my seatmate's dread as he saw me coming. He sat forward, leaning on the back of the seat in front of him for the majority of the ride from Phnom Pehn to Ho Chi Minh City.) Put it this way: after the first two hours my rear end was numb.

Crossing the Mekong by ferry

Just prior to the Vietnam border there was a thirty minute "rest" stop. (I still haven't figured out why. Maybe the bus company owns the restaurant.) Most people left the bus and entered an outdoor food hall (too hot under there for me); some stayed on the bus. I ventured out long enough to be ignored by the first two people I approached. Toilet? I asked. Nothing. Oh well, I went on the bus. (If you think the bus was designed for little tiny people, picture the bathroom on the bus. Got it? Riiight.) All aboard...ten minutes later we were at the border.

One of the fruit vendors at the rest stop

I should just tell you that the stop at the Vietnam border was two hours and leave it at that. That is probably enough information for you to get the picture, but I can't resist... It took two hours for forty people to show their passports and visas (multiple times) and scan their luggage. Two hours. OK first, everybody gave his or her passport to the bus hostess. Then everyone got off the bus. After ten minutes or so, the hostess gained everyone's attention and began to call off the name of each passenger at which time she returned that person's passport. Tedious. Absolutely tedious. No kidding...as soon as she handed my passport to me, I was required to hand it to a Vietnamese official sitting behind the window of a glass booth (which he shared with another official who was sitting behind him facing the window on the opposite side. If you don't know where this is going, you're not trying.) Once again, no kidding...the guy took the passport, did something (I'm not sure at this point) and motioned for me (here it comes...) to go to the other side of the booth, which, of course, I did. When it was my turn, I handed him my passport (fully expecting him to send me back around to the other side). He used an electronic camera to take my photo before handing me my passport.


OK once again, no kidding, I moved one step from the booth and the bus hostess took my passport. I reentered the bus as did everyone else. The bus traveled 100 yards and (would you like time to guess? I can wait...) we all were directed off the bus and into a reception hall. We waited along with countless other people kinda sorta in a line, but more like a herd for 45 minutes. 45 minutes. For-ty-fiiiive minutes! Why were we waiting? At the end of the hallway was one official sitting on a raised platform behind a glass partition. (Any guesses regarding what he was doing? Give yourself one point if you said "checking passports.") The problem at that moment was that we didn't have the passports, the hostess did. She arrived and gave the pile of passports to him. He sat with a huge stack of passports, slowly lifting them one at a time, doing whatever he was doing, and handing them (one at a time) back to the hostess who then called the name aloud. (Picture this: after 45 minutes in a hallway crowded with luggage and backpacks everyone had quite naturally pushed forward denying all access to the people whose names were being called. We were packed tighter than the fans at a British football match.)

Eight hours--that's how long it took us to arrive in Ho Chi Minh City, just two hours behind schedule; two hours spent at the border.

Nop and the Zoo

Nop

Officially named the Phnom Penh Zoological Park and Wildlife Rescue Center, most people just call it "the zoo." Located some 25 miles from the city, the zoo is a sprawling collection of indigenous and imported creatures. The reason I went is simple. From the moment I arrived, my grandson Andrew has asked me about the wildlife in Cambodia. Since then I have been trying to answer his questions. I figured the zoo was a good a place as any to get some of the answers.
I picked the absolute hottest day in the history of zoos. Sunday was clear, scorching hot, and dry as a bone. From the moment I arrived it was like walking in a furnace. Except for the monkeys which appeared unaffected by the heat, every other beast seemed to be either inside its shelter or lying prone.

When I arrived I was instantly surrounded by young boys, whom I assumed were beggars. Not the case. They were "tour guides," each vying for the opportunity to escort me from area to area and tell me what they knew of the wildlife--for a fee. The last guy standing (I tried to ignore them for as long as I could) was Nop. I'm glad he stuck it out. Nop was a walking encyclopedia of Cambodian wildlife.

Although Nop's English was good, at times he could tell that I didn't understand and would rephrase or repeat what he had said. "Dis one may-a; dis one da femay-a; and dare da buy-bee." He warned me about the "very very dangerous one" (an overactive gibbon), and he encouraged me to skip the "same, same" (as there were multiple cages of the same creatures; for example deer).

My favorite exhibit was a blind gibbon which has learned to stick his arms through the chain link fence in hopes that someone will give him bananas (which are for sale close by). He was very old, according to Nop, and extremely gentle. The zoo featured mongooses, tigers, and elephants. We saw leopards, crocodiles, and pythons. There were cages of eagles, bats, and minah birds (Nop said, "Minah can talk but Cambodia not speak English.") Of particular interest was the collection of bears; black bears from Japan and brown bears and Sun bears from Cambodia. According to Nop, Sun bears are hunted by Cambodians and their paws chopped off for soup and to make medicine. The zoo has approximately 150 Sun bears in its collection.

Visiting the zoo was an unforgettable and exhausting experience. I won't soon forget the heat, the wildlife, or my new friend, Nop.

Pop

Pop

I met Pop while I was eating at Chiang Mai, an excellent Thai restaurant on the riverfront. Pop is a street vendor. It's not unusual for street vendors to attempt to make contact in an effort to sell things like sunglasses or knitted hammocks. They work the riverfront, talking to pedestrians as they make their way from one end to the other. This day I was seated at the table closest to the front door, so it was no surprise that I should be approached by a half dozen entrepreneurs. Most of the time a simple shake of the head or a "No thank you" is enough to maintain a level of privacy; most of the time.

Enter Pop. Pop is a ten year old businessman who sells books and maps on the street. He approached my table and said, "You buy book." No thanks. "I have book. What book you want?" Listen Bud. I don't want a book. "Why?" What's your name? "Pop." Look here Pop, I don't want a book. "Map?" No. "DVD?" No. "CD?" Pop! No. I don't want anything. "Later." Later what? "Later you buy book." Pop, you're killin' me. I-do-not-want-a-book. "OK later." He started to walk away. Pop. He looked back. You want? I asked and held up a stick of pork satay. He shook his head no and kept walking.

Three minutes later he was back. Oh no not you again. "You buy me present." What? "You give me gift." What's your name? "I tell you Pop--P-O-P." Pop, I am not buying you a gift. "Why?" Why what? I'm not giving you a gift. "Later." Aw no don't start with the later again. "You give me one dollar." A dollar? Why in the world should I give you a dollar? I held up the satay stick again. He shook his head again. He walked away.

Three minutes later he was back. "OK mister I take." I handed him a satay stick and watched him join a boy about his size on the street. Pop I called. Tell him to come here. The other boy approached. I handed him a satay stick. He took it and walked away.

After I paid the bill I sat there watching Pop and his buddy eat and chit chat. He looked at me and I motioned for him to come back. I handed him a dollar. Tell your buddy to come over here. When he did I handed him a buck, too. "Thank you Mister." You're welcome I told him and off he ran.

As I collected my stuff and prepared to leave I saw Pop at a different table. All I heard was N-O I am not buying a book!

On Mother's Day

On Friday December 24, 1999 I called my mother at home where she lived at the retirement home. When she didn't answer I just figured she was running around with her friends. It simply never occurred to me that she was gone. As much as any part of that day, I remember the phone message I left for her--knowing she would listen to it, call me back and make comment regarding my silliness.

"Mom," I said on the recording, "this is Jay. I'm calling to tell you that you better watch out. You better not cry and you better not pout. I'm telling you why, Mom. Santy Claus is comin' to town." I left it at that. She never called back. For me and my brother no Christmas passes easily.

Mother's Day brings a different response. I guess it's because in my life I have so many mothers: my wife, my mother-in-law, my daughter. Being so far from home makes me think of them and appreciate them just a little more. Mostly it makes me miss them.

I wonder what my mother would have thought about my current situation. Her initial response to my decision to come to Cambodia would have been a familiar one: You must have rocks in your head! A traveler at heart she would have envied the opportunity to experience the beauty and wonder of this place. She would have worried herself sick while I was gone. She would have had a good reason to learn how to use email. (I'm not at all sure how she would have liked climbing in and out of tuk-tuks.)

To all the mothers out there--Happy Mother's Day!