I saw them down by the river yesterday, the familiar truckloads of men, women and children that are carted in from the countryside to enjoy a leisurely day by the river. They come in trucks and vans each and every Sunday, squashed together like cattle or pigs. Sometimes they even ride on top of the vans, when there's no more space for even one more person. Most of them are women, probably factory-workers, those pajama-clad ladies that eke out a living for their families in the garment industry. Sunday is their day to rest. Sunday is their day to head on down to the riverside and walk underneath the sun and smell the strong, pungent scent of the Tonle Sap. They can drift around the orange-robed monks, buy a balloon from the hopeful vendors, giggle at the occasional foreign tourists with their short shorts and big cameras.
Then the day drifts to night, the trucks start their indifferent growl, and the shy Khmer girls in their beige and blue hats hop back on the trucks. A nice day, true, and there is always next week! They scrunch together, standing in place. As the truck drives away they take a lingering last look at the river, the people, the cars, before turning their attention to the bumpy road ahead, the one that leads home.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Saturday, January 15, 2005
AL PACINO'S GRIP (OR, THE THINGS THAT YOUNG PEOPLE REMEMBER)
I have history of being condescended to by famous people in public forums. (Is that a word, 'condescended', or is it made-up? Then again, as I read somewhere recently, all words are made, up right? So what the hell.)
Three examples:
1) The Toronto Film Festival, fall, 1996. Kevin Spacey's directorial debut, Albino Alligator, plays to a packed house at the (recently deceased) Uptown Theatre in downtown Toronto. I watch the movie. I don't get the ending; I literally don't understand how what happened happened. One of those The Sting type deals. Everyone else is nodding their head in appreciation while I'm scratching my scalp in confusion. (I had the same sensation when I recently watched Ocean's Twelve. If anyone understands how the whole heist went down in this flick, can you let me know?) Kevin Spacey comes out for the q & a session and I ask him about the ending's, you know, meaning. He points out that he doesn't make simplistic movies for simplistic people -- he prefers pictures that make people think for themselves, rather than having everything spoon-fed to them. The audience erupts in applause. I sink down into my seat as if it were quicksand.
2) The National Arts Centre, Ottawa, 1998. Michael Ondaatje, the Canadian author of The English Patient, co-hosts a lecture-type thingee with Anthony Minghella, the director of its film adaptation (who went on to direct The Talented Mr.Ripley and Cold Mountain.) During the q & a I approach the mike and ask the two of them about the differences between creative writing and screenwriting, about their similarities, about the dangers of studying both at the same time, and how one of my professors warned that this was actually a bad thing. (I was trying to get them to talk about the mysterious, mystical, undefinable nature of fiction versus the more pragmatic, nuts-and-bolts nature of screenwriting -- that kind of thing.) They just kind of look at each other, and shrug, and say something along the lines of "Teachers -- what are ya going to do?" The audience laughs. I return to my seat, cheeks turning red.
3) The Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto, 1995. Norman Mailer is presenting a presentation of Picasso's work to coincide with his recent biography of the legendary artist. During the q & a, I ask Mailer if he saw any similarities between Picasso and Lee Harvey Oswald, since he had recently completed biographies of both. The crowd, filled with well-dressed, hoity-toity members of Toronto's artistic elite, laugh that laugh that is impossible to describe, but you sure as hell know it when you hear it -- a patronizing and bemused, chortle. I feel young and stupid.
Ah, but here's the thing. Mailer thinks about my question. He looks for answers; he makes an attempt at introspection. He doesn't blow me or my question off. And later, while I waited in line to get Mailer's signature on a copy of his book, somebody came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder and said: "I thought your question was the most interesting of the whole bunch."
Looking back, the thing that sticks in my craw wasn't necessarily the fact that famous people kept dissing me. It was the fact that I was snubbed in a public forum where two, three hundred people had a good laugh at my expense.
I remember that laugh.
But I also remember that man who said a few kind words to me. He didn't have to do that. But he saw a nineteen year old who had been embarassed by a bunch of pompous posers who should have known better. And he thought he'd say a few words to make me feel like less of a schmuck.
People remember the good stuff you say and the bad stuff you say (intentional or not, premeditated or not) more than you'd ever imagine.
It all echoes.
So here's the thing:
Young people are sensitive. Young people have weird ideas. You people say stupid things. Young people don't always get everything you tell them. Young people haven't been jaded or exposed to everything in life.
Not to be preachy, but I learned from five years of teaching that, when you look someone in the eye, you don't do it in a patronizing way. They see it, they know it, they feel it.
And they remember it.
Coming from St.Catharines to Toronto ten or so years ago, I wanted to see as many famous people as I could. And you know what? The truly great ones -- guys like Mailer, Oliver Stone, Spike Lee -- are often the most humane. I don't mean they treat you like a friend; I mean they treat you like a human. They answer your questions; they are polite; they give back what you give them.
I saw Al Pacino introduce his film Looking For Richard, and as he exited the stage, heading out the door, I leaned across two people who were sitting at the edge of the aisle and I asked: "Al, can I shake your hand?"
He looked up and without pausing and stretched out his hand and said: "You bet!"
The great ones react.
It may sound silly, or juvenile, and it is, but so are young people, and they remember what you say, or what you do; they remember when they are treated with respect, and dignity, and when they aren't. People in power talking to people beneath them have a weight and a force that reverberates.
Now, I don't look for famous people. (Most of the time, anyways.) But I try (and don't always succeed) to treat everyday young people and all people as if they are the centre of their universes.
And I remember when they treat me as if I'm just a constellation in theirs.
Three examples:
1) The Toronto Film Festival, fall, 1996. Kevin Spacey's directorial debut, Albino Alligator, plays to a packed house at the (recently deceased) Uptown Theatre in downtown Toronto. I watch the movie. I don't get the ending; I literally don't understand how what happened happened. One of those The Sting type deals. Everyone else is nodding their head in appreciation while I'm scratching my scalp in confusion. (I had the same sensation when I recently watched Ocean's Twelve. If anyone understands how the whole heist went down in this flick, can you let me know?) Kevin Spacey comes out for the q & a session and I ask him about the ending's, you know, meaning. He points out that he doesn't make simplistic movies for simplistic people -- he prefers pictures that make people think for themselves, rather than having everything spoon-fed to them. The audience erupts in applause. I sink down into my seat as if it were quicksand.
2) The National Arts Centre, Ottawa, 1998. Michael Ondaatje, the Canadian author of The English Patient, co-hosts a lecture-type thingee with Anthony Minghella, the director of its film adaptation (who went on to direct The Talented Mr.Ripley and Cold Mountain.) During the q & a I approach the mike and ask the two of them about the differences between creative writing and screenwriting, about their similarities, about the dangers of studying both at the same time, and how one of my professors warned that this was actually a bad thing. (I was trying to get them to talk about the mysterious, mystical, undefinable nature of fiction versus the more pragmatic, nuts-and-bolts nature of screenwriting -- that kind of thing.) They just kind of look at each other, and shrug, and say something along the lines of "Teachers -- what are ya going to do?" The audience laughs. I return to my seat, cheeks turning red.
3) The Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto, 1995. Norman Mailer is presenting a presentation of Picasso's work to coincide with his recent biography of the legendary artist. During the q & a, I ask Mailer if he saw any similarities between Picasso and Lee Harvey Oswald, since he had recently completed biographies of both. The crowd, filled with well-dressed, hoity-toity members of Toronto's artistic elite, laugh that laugh that is impossible to describe, but you sure as hell know it when you hear it -- a patronizing and bemused, chortle. I feel young and stupid.
Ah, but here's the thing. Mailer thinks about my question. He looks for answers; he makes an attempt at introspection. He doesn't blow me or my question off. And later, while I waited in line to get Mailer's signature on a copy of his book, somebody came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder and said: "I thought your question was the most interesting of the whole bunch."
Looking back, the thing that sticks in my craw wasn't necessarily the fact that famous people kept dissing me. It was the fact that I was snubbed in a public forum where two, three hundred people had a good laugh at my expense.
I remember that laugh.
But I also remember that man who said a few kind words to me. He didn't have to do that. But he saw a nineteen year old who had been embarassed by a bunch of pompous posers who should have known better. And he thought he'd say a few words to make me feel like less of a schmuck.
People remember the good stuff you say and the bad stuff you say (intentional or not, premeditated or not) more than you'd ever imagine.
It all echoes.
So here's the thing:
Young people are sensitive. Young people have weird ideas. You people say stupid things. Young people don't always get everything you tell them. Young people haven't been jaded or exposed to everything in life.
Not to be preachy, but I learned from five years of teaching that, when you look someone in the eye, you don't do it in a patronizing way. They see it, they know it, they feel it.
And they remember it.
Coming from St.Catharines to Toronto ten or so years ago, I wanted to see as many famous people as I could. And you know what? The truly great ones -- guys like Mailer, Oliver Stone, Spike Lee -- are often the most humane. I don't mean they treat you like a friend; I mean they treat you like a human. They answer your questions; they are polite; they give back what you give them.
I saw Al Pacino introduce his film Looking For Richard, and as he exited the stage, heading out the door, I leaned across two people who were sitting at the edge of the aisle and I asked: "Al, can I shake your hand?"
He looked up and without pausing and stretched out his hand and said: "You bet!"
The great ones react.
It may sound silly, or juvenile, and it is, but so are young people, and they remember what you say, or what you do; they remember when they are treated with respect, and dignity, and when they aren't. People in power talking to people beneath them have a weight and a force that reverberates.
Now, I don't look for famous people. (Most of the time, anyways.) But I try (and don't always succeed) to treat everyday young people and all people as if they are the centre of their universes.
And I remember when they treat me as if I'm just a constellation in theirs.
TOYS THAT WILL GUARANTEE A SPIRITUAL SMACKDOWN
Just in case you ever wanted an action figure of Jesus Christ or the Buddha or the Dalai Lama, rest assured, your quest is over:
www.jesuschristsuperstore.net
(It'd be a little weird having Jesus fight the Dalai Lama, though. Something morally wrong with that, I think. Not that I wouldn't give it a go...)
www.jesuschristsuperstore.net
(It'd be a little weird having Jesus fight the Dalai Lama, though. Something morally wrong with that, I think. Not that I wouldn't give it a go...)
I'M NOT CAMBODIAN
How would I feel if I were a Cambodian who read the latest biography of Pol Pot, in the which the author, a Brit, basically labels the Khmer race as lazy and lackluster workers, in addition to having the unfortunate luck of being stuck in a country that resembles a broken vase, ruled by a murderous thug, its future pale and uncertain?
I probably wouldn't be pleased. I would, most likely, be ticked off.
But I'm not Cambodian. I'm Canadian, which means I bring my own, western perspective to works of history and politics, culture and literature.
It's funny. I liked living in Japan, but I knew that I would never want to be Japanese; I enjoy Cambodia, too, but I can't imagine being a living and breather Khmer person, citizen, dude.
Is it even possible to think of ourselves as a race other than our own? Is it even relevant?
Yea to the first, nay to the second. Books on Japan by non-Japanese will always be from an outside perspective, one that may understand the culture, yes, but won't be of the culture.
This can be an asset; it can allow the author a distanced perspective that provides the possibility for clear-eyed, large-scale thinking, seeing the trends and patterns that natives of the country might miss.
There's a danger, however, in applying attitudes of certainty, no matter how well researched, to entire countries and races. I'm not saying the judgements shouldn't be made. (Maybe a definition of being human could be 'a creature that is able to judge others'.) They have to be viewed, however, with a certain discretion and skepticism.
So, by all means, if you're interested in a fascinating area of recent history that you might not know much about, pick up Pol Pot: History of a Nightmare by Philip Short. It's a very brisk, readable overview of the man and the era. I agree with most of what he says, and how he says it.
But as the author himself pointed out in a recent letter to the Phnom Penh Post, it's up to the Cambodian people themselves to judge his work -- it's their country, after all.
As I said, I agreed with Short's conclusions and general outlook on the country and its future.
But I'm not Cambodian.
I probably wouldn't be pleased. I would, most likely, be ticked off.
But I'm not Cambodian. I'm Canadian, which means I bring my own, western perspective to works of history and politics, culture and literature.
It's funny. I liked living in Japan, but I knew that I would never want to be Japanese; I enjoy Cambodia, too, but I can't imagine being a living and breather Khmer person, citizen, dude.
Is it even possible to think of ourselves as a race other than our own? Is it even relevant?
Yea to the first, nay to the second. Books on Japan by non-Japanese will always be from an outside perspective, one that may understand the culture, yes, but won't be of the culture.
This can be an asset; it can allow the author a distanced perspective that provides the possibility for clear-eyed, large-scale thinking, seeing the trends and patterns that natives of the country might miss.
There's a danger, however, in applying attitudes of certainty, no matter how well researched, to entire countries and races. I'm not saying the judgements shouldn't be made. (Maybe a definition of being human could be 'a creature that is able to judge others'.) They have to be viewed, however, with a certain discretion and skepticism.
So, by all means, if you're interested in a fascinating area of recent history that you might not know much about, pick up Pol Pot: History of a Nightmare by Philip Short. It's a very brisk, readable overview of the man and the era. I agree with most of what he says, and how he says it.
But as the author himself pointed out in a recent letter to the Phnom Penh Post, it's up to the Cambodian people themselves to judge his work -- it's their country, after all.
As I said, I agreed with Short's conclusions and general outlook on the country and its future.
But I'm not Cambodian.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
DANGLING, ANYWHERE AND EVERYWHERE
The first unbelievable thing I noticed when I initially came to Cambodia happened on the way into the city from the airport. I see this occurence literally everyday now, and I don't even think twice about it anymore, but at the time it was stunning; at the time it was frightening. It seemed to violate some unwritten rule of life. Now it just is, a part of life, a way of life for thousands of people, I supposed you'd say.
I'm talking about a bike. I'm talking about a moto, and a lady on the moto, and the tiny, fragile, living and breathing thing she was holding in her arms.
Said thing being a baby, of course.
So what's the big deal?
I don't know, call me crazy, but back in Ontario if you saw a lady riding shotgun in the rain on a little moto like the type Sweetchuck rode in Police Academy III with a kid clutched under her arm like a soggy paperback book you'd probably call the police.
I, on the other hand, being in a third-world country (and being without a phone), was not about to call the police. I was so shocked that I quickly whipped out my disposable camera and took a shot of the lady, and the baby, and the bike.
Odd, how flabbergasted I was. Natural, I guess; it would have been frightening if I hadn't have been floored, I guess.
It's weird how things juxtaposed can disarm you. A moto is no big deal, and neither is a lady riding on one. A moto with a lady with a baby riding on one -- now that's something that short-circuits your mental nerves. (The first few times you see it.)
Then you take the moto, and you multiply it by a hundred, then a thousand, and you have a picture of Phnom Penh's streets, a picture that started off bizarre and tilted and gradually became mundane, even ordinary. The saving grace here is that the population of Phnom Penh isn't really all that high -- maybe a million people. It doesn't even compare to Bangkok or Ho Chi Minh (or so I've heard.) So even though the streets are crammed tight with motos and bikes and the occasional elephant walking around (if you're down by the river), things are not
out of control.
What am I saying.
This is Phnom Penh, and it is chaos, I'll admit that. They treat traffic signals as, I don't know, recommendations. (You don't need a license to drive a moto, but even if you did, I don't think it would make that much of a difference.)
There's no chance in hell you'd catch me driving on these roads, on moto or in a car. Just today I saw a foreigner zooming down the street on his motorcycle. A traffic cop saw him coming, rushed out to the centre of the road, put on his angry, scowling face and ordered the foreigner, via a half-assed karate chop hand gesture and a sharp little bark, to stop. The foreigner, smart guy that he was, just kept on trucking.
You don't mess with Cambodian police.
People here don't have that choice. They can't afford cars, most of them, so they fit their whole families on their bikes and away they go. The most number of people I've seen on a bike (intended for two) is seven, I think. Two parents and five kids, laying on laps and standing on shoulders and tucked under various sweaty armpits, legs and arms dangling anywhere and everywhere.
Strange, what you can get used to: traffic chaos and humans scrunched together and the sight of wide-eyed little tykes clutching their fathers waist from behind as if their fingers are fastened by velcro.
Sobering, the small, everyday indignities that people can endure.
I'm talking about a bike. I'm talking about a moto, and a lady on the moto, and the tiny, fragile, living and breathing thing she was holding in her arms.
Said thing being a baby, of course.
So what's the big deal?
I don't know, call me crazy, but back in Ontario if you saw a lady riding shotgun in the rain on a little moto like the type Sweetchuck rode in Police Academy III with a kid clutched under her arm like a soggy paperback book you'd probably call the police.
I, on the other hand, being in a third-world country (and being without a phone), was not about to call the police. I was so shocked that I quickly whipped out my disposable camera and took a shot of the lady, and the baby, and the bike.
Odd, how flabbergasted I was. Natural, I guess; it would have been frightening if I hadn't have been floored, I guess.
It's weird how things juxtaposed can disarm you. A moto is no big deal, and neither is a lady riding on one. A moto with a lady with a baby riding on one -- now that's something that short-circuits your mental nerves. (The first few times you see it.)
Then you take the moto, and you multiply it by a hundred, then a thousand, and you have a picture of Phnom Penh's streets, a picture that started off bizarre and tilted and gradually became mundane, even ordinary. The saving grace here is that the population of Phnom Penh isn't really all that high -- maybe a million people. It doesn't even compare to Bangkok or Ho Chi Minh (or so I've heard.) So even though the streets are crammed tight with motos and bikes and the occasional elephant walking around (if you're down by the river), things are not
out of control.
What am I saying.
This is Phnom Penh, and it is chaos, I'll admit that. They treat traffic signals as, I don't know, recommendations. (You don't need a license to drive a moto, but even if you did, I don't think it would make that much of a difference.)
There's no chance in hell you'd catch me driving on these roads, on moto or in a car. Just today I saw a foreigner zooming down the street on his motorcycle. A traffic cop saw him coming, rushed out to the centre of the road, put on his angry, scowling face and ordered the foreigner, via a half-assed karate chop hand gesture and a sharp little bark, to stop. The foreigner, smart guy that he was, just kept on trucking.
You don't mess with Cambodian police.
People here don't have that choice. They can't afford cars, most of them, so they fit their whole families on their bikes and away they go. The most number of people I've seen on a bike (intended for two) is seven, I think. Two parents and five kids, laying on laps and standing on shoulders and tucked under various sweaty armpits, legs and arms dangling anywhere and everywhere.
Strange, what you can get used to: traffic chaos and humans scrunched together and the sight of wide-eyed little tykes clutching their fathers waist from behind as if their fingers are fastened by velcro.
Sobering, the small, everyday indignities that people can endure.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
UNANCHORED
They come out at night.
Not exclusively, no, but you can usually find them prowling the streets when the sun goes down, searching through the city's garbage, manhandling the refuse, hunting for utility.
Last night I walked down Sihanouk, fumbling around in my pocket, searching for my keys. The air was cool and the night was dark and I felt very far from home, liking and disliking that familiar feeling.
I heard a voice.
"Sir! Sir"
I turned behind me to see a young boy, how young impossible to tell, pointing at the ground. (All Cambodian kids look younger than they are, mostly due to stunted growth.) He was a typical street kid -- dirty and scruffy and smiling wide. A makeshift cart full of, well, junk sat on the street, waiting for him. He was one of those kids who help their parents (or themselves) out by patiently, expertly strolling the streets, looking for the gunk we throw away -- cans, food, bottles. Whatever.
I looked to where he was pointing. A five hundred riel note, crumpled and red, was on the ground. I must have dropped it.
He could have picked it up. I was a good little ways ahead of him; I'd have never known the difference. And it's only the equivalent of twelve cents -- I certainly wouldn't have missed it.
And yet this kid, who was scrounging for, well, for his life, didn't take the money and run. He could have used it. His family could have used it. But he chose to call out. To give it back.
We all form our own personal theories about the places we live in and the people who live there. We cling to them. Then somebody comes along and shows us why theories are just that, theoretical, and usually unanchored in anything solid or real.
I picked up the money. He smiled. I smiled.
Then I gave him a dollar, and I gave the wretched looking lady who was rummaging through the trash splayed on the sidewalk next to him a dollar, and while they smiled their thanks I turned away.
I went home to rest, feeling guilty and good, condescending and smug, while the boy behind me went back to his cart and back to work.
Not exclusively, no, but you can usually find them prowling the streets when the sun goes down, searching through the city's garbage, manhandling the refuse, hunting for utility.
Last night I walked down Sihanouk, fumbling around in my pocket, searching for my keys. The air was cool and the night was dark and I felt very far from home, liking and disliking that familiar feeling.
I heard a voice.
"Sir! Sir"
I turned behind me to see a young boy, how young impossible to tell, pointing at the ground. (All Cambodian kids look younger than they are, mostly due to stunted growth.) He was a typical street kid -- dirty and scruffy and smiling wide. A makeshift cart full of, well, junk sat on the street, waiting for him. He was one of those kids who help their parents (or themselves) out by patiently, expertly strolling the streets, looking for the gunk we throw away -- cans, food, bottles. Whatever.
I looked to where he was pointing. A five hundred riel note, crumpled and red, was on the ground. I must have dropped it.
He could have picked it up. I was a good little ways ahead of him; I'd have never known the difference. And it's only the equivalent of twelve cents -- I certainly wouldn't have missed it.
And yet this kid, who was scrounging for, well, for his life, didn't take the money and run. He could have used it. His family could have used it. But he chose to call out. To give it back.
We all form our own personal theories about the places we live in and the people who live there. We cling to them. Then somebody comes along and shows us why theories are just that, theoretical, and usually unanchored in anything solid or real.
I picked up the money. He smiled. I smiled.
Then I gave him a dollar, and I gave the wretched looking lady who was rummaging through the trash splayed on the sidewalk next to him a dollar, and while they smiled their thanks I turned away.
I went home to rest, feeling guilty and good, condescending and smug, while the boy behind me went back to his cart and back to work.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
LOST IN TRANSLATION
Leaning close,
To the T.V.,
To the Japanese cooking show,
I listen, straining:
For illumination, insight, understanding
But darkness falls, and I'm left with 'Oishii!'
Which is expected, anticipated, enough.
To the T.V.,
To the Japanese cooking show,
I listen, straining:
For illumination, insight, understanding
But darkness falls, and I'm left with 'Oishii!'
Which is expected, anticipated, enough.
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