Dispatches From a Dilettante (29 page)

Because Gerry was such a mild and cautious man and had never had even a scrape in his substantial past driving experience, he was displaying all the symptoms of a man in shock. He was so concerned at the damage done to both the Toyota and the rented truck that the more he looked concerned and devastated at the turn of events, the more we found it hysterically funny. So much so that we had stay out of the way and observe as, with some difficulty, four men struggled to tear apart the copulating vehicles. Gerry, and the remarkably sanguine Toyota owner, exchanged details as we recovered our decorum and strolled over to enquire whether they would like fresh coffees.

It was two hours before the convoy could start the final leg of the journey and two weeks before we got the full explanation. By the time all was revealed the official version according to Gerry, which had long gone public, was that I was to blame. Apparently he had been shouting “Am I OK Paul?” while inching back slowly and had taken my waves as a correct indication that he was, although over the beeping of the reverse warning noise I had not heard him.

He then claimed that we had abandoned him, which was true given he was safe in the slot or as good as. Gerry had, it transpired, sighed with relief at completing the reversing job and hit the accelerator instead of the brake - thus sending the truck at some velocity into the Toyota. Somehow they had become attached. In a doomed attempt to improve matters he then attempted to drive to a better parking slot that had become free, blissfully unaware that he was now towing and further damaging the brand new Japanese sports coupe.

The embarrassments of the ‘annus horribilis’ may have not been the reason we decided to go and live in the Bahamas but they may have been a contributing factor – and they weren’t over. Once the decision had been made to head for the turquoise waters of the Caribbean, we threw ourselves into multitude of tasks necessary to many secure what little we had in this country, before embarking in a new life in another. Perhaps the biggest of these was getting the right estate agent to handle the letting of our house together with the management of the finances and maintenance, while we were away for what we thought was going to be three years.

We ‘interviewed’ three agents none of whom we found inspiring, before settling on a new company, and its’ managing director called round to agree the final arrangements. I had got home early from work to be there and as usual parked the car in the drive of our modest semi. The MD arrived on time in a gleaming new BMW and we ushered him in.

The struggle for the legal tender loomed large in those days and I was working three nights a week as a Youth Leader to supplement my income. I had blotted my copybook recently by returning home late and drunk having completely forgotten that we had invited three couples to dinner. I walked in at eleven to an awkward silence. My wife, who is by nature a placid woman, remained calm until the last guest had left. Then without saying a word she threw a plate of spaghetti at me. I ducked and it hit a glass partition slowly slipping down it like a scene from a Fellini film noir. That is why I was early for the estate agent’s visit.

From the off he was professional and competent as we finalised matters over a cup of tea in the front room. As we were clearly going to use him for the letting I made my excuses and left for the Youth Club. It was a journey that I had made a thousand times and I was on auto pilot as soon as I was out of the front door. Auto pilot disengaged the moment after I slammed broadside into the brand new BMW bought by the estate agent that very day, as he later told me. We headed for the sun leaving in our wake the remnants of what once looked like a bright future.

In the circumstances I was pleasantly surprised to return from the Caribbean to find that our house had not mysteriously caught fire and burned down.

21.
KHYMER CHAMELEON – PHNOM PENH CAMBODIA 2009

“Your man is Long and he looks like a Sumo wrestler – he’ll be at Phnom Penh Airport to meet you”. As far as information goes this was a little on the sparse side. I wasn’t quite sure whether ‘Long’ referred to his stature or his name. There was an added complication for what was already turning into an eventful trip. My host in Cambodia was to be an American woman and her partner - or so I thought. The last phone message I got at Heathrow before boarding the Korean Airlines flight to Seoul informed me that this relationship was no more although ‘we’re still living together in the same house’.

I had decided to kick start the lead up to retirement with a life affirming adventure, and when my American contact in Cambodia said there were hundreds of volunteering opportunities given the poverty and lack of infrastructure there I said ‘Yes’ before fully thinking through the implications. My wife wisely declined the offer of this, as yet, unspecified ‘opportunity’ which meant we would be apart for six weeks which had never happened in thirty five years. That being the case I was unreasonably but ridiculously pleased to arrive in Phnom Penh without losing any clothing, documents, money or luggage.

Friends had very generously stomped up money for medical and educational equipment as I, after several exploratory emails finally committed to working with an American guy who had set up school rooms in a couple of slum areas and a squatter camp outside the capital. An innovative Cambodian Charity in England had agreed to hold the money so that, when I had got the hang of things, it could be sent direct to my nominated projects at source, as opposed to getting creamed off by corrupt officials.

Long was not only there at midnight as I left the airport terminal, but he was easily spotted from the description and at least six inches taller and broader than the average Cambodian. He was to be my fixer in Phnom Penh and he was brilliant - apart from the several occasions when he had better offers. Long lived a forty five minute drive out of the capital but rarely went home to his wife and family. He slept in his tuk tuk, open to the elements, which he parked whenever he got tired of taking fares or when business was slow. This was fairly common practice but made the practicalities of life quite challenging.

After dumping me outside my hosts in the dark during a brief power cut, Long informed me, in a combination of broken English and sign language, that he was picking me up at nine the following morning. I was extremely tired and totally disorientated in the humid inky blackness, and was yet to ascertain the domestic situation that I was about to encounter. Long would have none of it, pointed to his watch and moved the dial to nine. With that he disappeared after knocking on the door to announce my presence but not waiting for a reply.

The domestic situation was not initially an issue as the male half of the couple was not going to return until the early hours after a trip up country. My host had an early start and so after brief pleasantries I was shown my windowless room. Despite the humidity I quickly fell asleep to the white noise of two giant fans which lowered the temperature to at least thirty three humid degrees.

A ‘toot’ on the horn the next morning signalled Long’s arrival and we instantly set off to purchase a local SIM card for my phone. This was a smart move on his part as I now had no excuse for not using his services, but they proved to be invaluable. I was totally stunned to find out that, a few minutes after I had purchased this SIM card and turned on the phone (actually Long purchased it in his now official ‘fixer’ role) twelve texts popped up. It was intriguing given that I only knew three people in Phnom Penh at this stage.

I read the first which was written exactly as you read it now. ‘Hello Mr Paul We are welcome in our home. Please give my regards to your estimable Prime Minister Mr Tommy Blair sincerely Visoth ’. This was demonstrably an enigma wrapped up in a puzzle.

Ought I to respond with the news of ‘Tommy’s’ political demise? Perhaps I should point out that, although I had once met him briefly, we weren’t exactly drinking buddies? There was an initial urge to send a ‘stinger’ back saying that not only was he considerably less than estimable, but that he had fucked up the country by dragging us illegally into a war and was now pursuing a venal property acquiring lifestyle. Wisely, after that cathartic mental outburst I concluded that, for my first text response in Cambodia, it might be better to wait until I knew who the sender was and then be as polite in my reply as they had been in sending it. Ultimately it didn’t get any response as I never found out the identity of the mystery texter.

What, though, became clear very quickly was that the overwhelming majority of young Cambodians, even those in the most desperate of circumstances, were eager to please, keen to learn and not in the least self pitying. That text, from whoever sent it, was typical of their desire to be welcoming and display interest in visitors.

The six weeks passed in a blink of eye. Within days, via my American friend, I had contacts at all levels which enabled me to get a real insight into the country in double quick time. I found to my surprise that I did have access to an old computer with battered keyboard. There was fast internet in Phnom Penh and indeed plenty of internet cafes in the backpacker area, but not where I worked.

In any given week at work most people will get some form of soliciting email for a good cause, either from individuals they know or from charities trawling for support. I was genuinely shocked and touched by the number of donors who responded and the amounts they gave. Surprised at having the opportunity to be in sporadic contact, it was the least I could do to keep my generous friends and colleagues in touch. What was even nicer was when their replies came back offering encouragement even if it was often in the form of mild abuse.

I’ve produced a few below rather than give a day by day account of life in the big C as nobody calls it, and have resisted the urge to edit or polish them up, as you will quickly see. It was a great way to get ready for the big S - that significant birthday which happened two weeks after my return and was celebrated in a pub without a grain of rice or a noodle in sight.

Camodia Blogs

It Ain’t Half Hot

Dear Sponsors

Here’s a first brief update from the steaming heat of Phnom Penh. It is currently thirty five degrees, with eighty nine per cent humidity. I am working with an American who has a school in a slum housing block named Dey Krahorn. I say school, but think two rooms down a smelly alley in derelict buildings illegally occupied by squatters. Next to the rooms people are living and cooking. They have been evicted from land next door which has been cleared for ‘development'', but is now empty. Some of these people live on a relocation site eighteen kilometres away but their kids come back to the school and Drew is opening up another room on the relocation site soon.

Drew McDowell is a saint but a quirky one. The school is unlicensed but he employs, in some form or other ten people, and I am typing this from his ‘office’, which is one room in a building down the road. I have already exhausted every teaching gimmick and my entire cabaret act, so some serious planning is in order.

Drew’s comments as parents drift in and out are along the lines of ‘'This one is a gangster'" and "This one stole from the classroom", but he is known and loved in the slum, where I am now called ‘Om Paul’. This translates as Old Paul which I am told is a sign of respect but doubt it - or Mr Paul by the kids.

Some of you reading this will have been to Phnom Penh but for any newcomer it is a sensory overload for the first few days. There are temples everywhere, and amongst the crumbling former French colonial buildings, UN Land Cruisers, a million mopeds, scooters and tuk tuks (think motorised rickshaw) trundle along. Unsurprisingly there’s extreme poverty cheek by jowl with money – most of it new. On every corner aromas ranging from jasmine and street cooking to rotting food assault the senses.

I have been staying with some US contacts but am looking for a place this evening as a more permanent base. Just to make you smile I have been to two meditation sessions at a local temple - an hour each. I know many of you will find it hard to believe that I could remain silent that long…so was I.

First batch of your money will go to Aziza School (Drew’s place) for books and equipment so big thanks to you guys….more news from your PP correspondent to follow.

Om Paul

Five up Death ride and Follicle Fun

Dear Supporters/Contributors

Three up on a moto is common - think slightly more than a moped. Four is unusual and seeing five today was a first. It was one adult with four kids and the shopping moving serenely through the rush hour traffic. I say ‘rush’ hour but the dense traffic slowly oozes like viscous liquid through the steamy heat.

The death ride in the title does not refer to this however. On Thursday Drew took me to his second school at Lakeside. It sounds nice but is the most stinking slum crossed by the railway track. We set off on his moto in the heaviest downpour since I arrived and in a gridlocked rush hour. I couldn’t see where we were going and I’m not sure he could either. When the road gave out near Lakeside we went through ankle deep water.

On arrival the young kids were doing yoga in a one room shack. We stayed for three hours until the rain eased and visited a family who also lived in a one room ‘building’. One of the daughters may be where the next bit of your money goes. She is exceptionally bright and Drew is thinking of funding some further training for her.

For those of us who are ‘follicly challenged’ the local barber’s sign is full of optimism. It reads: "BARBER - FOR ALL KINDS OF MEN". However this is easily beaten by the shop I passed in a tuk tuk which was offering facial treatment. It read: ‘TREATMENT FOR PUSS, SPOTS AND FACIAL BRUISING’.

I’ve booked in!

Your Cambodian correspondent

Paul

Livin’ it Large in the Jungle

Hi Supporters and Donors

The last few days have been tough as ever, but varied and full on. Highlights from the two schools which to remind you are Aziza in the Dey Krahorn slum and Aziza Lakeside at the even worse one across town include: