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The road to Siem raep

11/9/2014

Even if I didn’t have to pay more, I didn’t want to be stuffed inside with some strange man, sniffing his cigarrette smoke. No way, I wanted to be in the wind, all the way.
I opened my eyes and sat up quickly in the rickshaw seat. I'd fallen asleep, but now the shouts of the children woke me up, and I realized that we were nearing the border of Cambodia. I was in Thailand for an extra week after a youth convention, and had convinced Jake, a friend of mine, to go with me on a whirlwind tour to this neighboring country.

As we came to a stop, eager porters, curiouse onlookers, and scraggly, dirty begger children were materializing from nowhere. I scarcely had time to grab my things and step out before the poor little things were all around me, snatching at the bags of fruit I was carrying.

“Wait,” I shouted to no avail,”if you give me space, I’ll give you some of the fruit!”

I gave the babnanas to a little boy, and before I knew it, a little girl had clawed a hole in the other bag and tangerines went everywhere, the children in hot pursuit.
The blessed reprieve gave me just enough time to look up and see my back being carried off by an overzealous porter. Jake was not far behind, and I hurried to catch up.

There seemed to be people everywhere, pulling huge carts of supplies, selling things, begging, wandering around looking for dumb-looking tourists to “guide”. “No matter how careful you are, someone always takes advantage of you,” someone had wisely warned me. I was determined not to let it happen to me

A man crossed in front of me pushing a small cart of delicacies: fried cockroaches. an inch long, fried white grubs, large black fried scorpions, and something that looked like assorted fried insects. I had heard dogs were a part of the diet here, but how could anyone willingly put a cockroach in their mouth??

I finally caught up to my bag and porter under an awning, where he was already getting my paperwork for the visa. I pulled out my extra passport photo, while Jake scrounged to find a picture that would do. All he could find was one of himself making a crazed lunatic face. The guards grinned and presented it to the officials. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do.

There was a series of buildings to walk through, carrying passport, visa application, and luggage, standing in lines, all the time mesmerized by the chaos all around. Crossing over a bridge, I looked down into the eyes of a destitute woman, sitting on a bank of garbage and discarded clothing beside a putrid creek, a child huddling at her side. Her meager earthly belongings sat nearby, barely distinguishable from the rubble all around. I wonder how hungry those children were, I wondered, remembering the fruit rolling on the ground. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if beggars are as hard-up as they look, but I couldn’t help but wonder how long it might have been since those children had eaten.

CATCHING A RIDE
At last we walked through the massive, crowned gate, on which were the words “Kingdom of Cambodia”. Time for business. I’d been advised no to pay more than 200 bhat (about $5.00) for each of our transportation to Siem Reap. It could take us four to five hours, and we could either take a taxi, or ride on a truck. A Taxi driver leaning on the door of his car called to eager helpers. “You take taxi!” They said to us.

“How much?” I asked.
“Only 1000 bhat, you rent whole taxi.”
“How much for just one seat?”
“One seat?” they seemed surprised. “One seat only 400 bhat.”
“No, too much,I’ll give you 200 bhat.”
“Nau! You pay 400 one seat. You pay only 1000 for whole taxi, you go direct to Siem Reap. You rent whole taxi!” I started walking away.

The dialog repeated itself with another taxi driver.“How much for a truck?” I asked. It sounded more exciting to me, anyway. Who wanted to be stuck inside a stuffy car when you could be out in the fresh air, breathing in the new smells and seeing the lanscape with nothing in between? What could beat the wonderful thrill of the wind your your face as you sped toward a new adventure.
“You sit in the front,only 300bhat," my helpers suggested.
“No, too much. I will pay only 200 bhat.”
“Nau! You pay 300!”
“How much to sit in the back?” I questioned.
“In back only 200 bhat.You ride in front,” my eager guides insisted, “You pay 300 bhat.”
I ignored them.

We were walking away from the main buildings at the border, along a dusty road with vehicles parked along both sides. Everywhere trash lined the streets, and people were shifting through it, collecting anything that looked like it might have some value. A little girl with a red skirt and checkered shirt gazed at me from under a brimmed hat. She carried a large rucksack full of her treasures. Bicycles and motorcycles zoomed along the road in both directions. There were shops and warehouses, and little stands with fruit or snacks on them.

“You go in this truck,” said the boys, “You leave now, right away, no stops, you go direct Siem Raep, no stops.” We discussed the price, and they assured us it would only cost 200 bhat, and repeated that it would take us immediately. We threw our backpacks on and climbed aboard, trying not to put our weight on the plastic merchandise that was already filling the truck bed.

“You sit inside,” one of our young helpers looked up at me and pointed to the cab.
“No, I stay here,” I said firmly. Even if I didn’t have to pay more, I didn’t want to be stuffed inside with some strange man, sniffing his cigarrette smoke. No way, I wanted to be in the wind, all the way.

After several other people had joined us, our helper said, “You pay now.”

Fair enough, I thought. We handed over the 200 bhat, and the driver disappeared. Our young helpers were looking at us expectantly now. The dilemma we faced so many times: are we being stingy rich Americans, or would we be spoiling them if we gave them more, thus making it harder on tourists who come behind? We gave our helpers a few more bhat, and they left us to our fate.

ARE WE LEAVING YET??
The driver was obviously trying to get someone to ride in the cab, but to no avail. At last we began moving along the dusty road, only to stop again after just a few yards away, where the driver went looking for more passengers. By now there were 6 or seven people, all of us teetering on the rim of the truck so we would not crush the cargo.

The afternoon was waining, and I was wondering if we were ever going to go, when I became aware of a child’s screams moving towards us through the crowd. Our driver emerged dragging a wailing little boy by the arm. He deposited the still blubbering child firmly in the front seat. Hot on his tail came an angry momma holding an infant on one hip. She snatched up her child and yelled in the driver's face before storming off.

We continued to pull forward and then back up until there were 10 passengers in the back, and two in the front. At last we were on our way. For a short distance the road was paved, and then we were rumbling over a red dusty stretch covered with potholes. One moment I was holding on dearly to my little corner over the taillight, the next, the truck bounced and dipped and I found myself flying smoothly through the warm dusty afternoon air. Fortunately, the truck bed and I met each other again as it came up and I came down. OUCH! And from then on, it was a ride like no other, to say the least.

The green and brown Cambodian countryside bounced painfully past. Occasionally we came to paved stretches of hiway that carried us through little villages. We passed little open snack shops, and verandas where women in faded colorful dresses were squatting over rice pots, cooking the evening meal. Men chatted amiably in the shade, while children and skinny dogs played in the street. We waved at a woman wearing a sleeveless shirt and a flower-print sarang. A little girl with a round belly hanging over her skirt held her hand, and little boy ran beside her carrying a big stick. Behind them the lush banana leaves and other foliage dissappeared into the dusky afternoon.
We passed signs written in the most unusual script I had ever seen. The letters were squiggly and strange, and there were accent and tone marks above and beyond. I wondered how any school-aged child could ever learn to read such script. The Cambodian language is one of the most complicated to read, not only because it is tonal (different intonations of the same word may mean entirely different things), but also because there can be accent marks up to five levels deep in some areas! “Hooked on Phonics” cards in Cambodia would be enough to bury a child alive!

I began to wonder if I was going to be able to bear this road all the way to Siem Raep. I tried to sit crouched with my feet on the load of plastid in the truck bed, but it was difficult to balance. Then I turned so that my feet hung over the edge, one off the side and one of the back, straddling the corner of the truck bed. While this didn’t help the constant tail-bone jarring, I did have better balance. Suddenly, however, a bus roared by so close that I thought it would take my leg with it! There flashed before my eyes a vision of myself traveling rapidly toward Siem Raep, while my disembodied leg traveled just as rapidly back toward the border of Thailand. From then on I watched closely, and moved my leg whenever it seemed necessary.

But despite the pain, the awkward position, and the gritty feeling of dirt between my teeth, I couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling of the wind in my face and the sense of dashing into a new world. There was so much to see all around, not the least of which was the faces of the men and woman around us in the truck bed. They had all watched us with interest, wondering what on earth these two strange white faces were doing in thier usually brown landscape. The woman each wore a brimmed had under a red checkered scarf, which they pulled in front of their faces when the air was especially dusty. In fact, most all the women we passed seemed to have a checkered scarf, most of the red, but some green or multicolored. They wore dark jackets against the wind, and sarangs of different colors, all faded and old. The girls and the woman had fresh tan faces, with dark almond eyes and lush eyebrows. They had small noses and high cheekbones, dusted slightly pink. The men were weathered and tough, and didn’t make any extra room for the women. I realized right away that this was an every-woman-for-herself world where no one was going to make me sit inside or try to make me comfortable just because I was a woman. It was an exhilerating and slightly frightening concept, that only added to the intrigue of it all. Once again I was thankful to have Jake along for support.

After two hours, we pulled into a town, and stopped in a large square in the center. Instantly we were surrounded by teenagers selling bread, eggs, and drinks in bamboo cups, hanging on the ends of a bamboo stick across the shoulders. Suddenly I realized how hungry I was. Right away Jake bough some small baghett-type rolls and some boiled-eggs. I was still too on edge to pull my money out and do business, and I was thankful Jake was braver than I.

The driver told us to transfer into another truck. So much for “direct Siem Raep”.
“You no pay,” he assured us, “I pay driver.” At least that was taken care of.
The new truck was filled with huge spiney Jackfruit, each weighing 10-15 pounds. We sat on boxes in the back, only to be scolded for damaging the “young jackfruits”. So our choice was to sit on the spiney fruit or on the rim of the truck. The spines were blunt, but I couldn’t quite decide which was worse on my already sensitive derry-aire. I looked at the large Cambodian woman who was already lifting herself up to join us and wondered at the callouses that must form from riding this way on a regular basis. I had a long way to go before I could sit in comfort as these women did.

Dusk was setting in as we pulled out of the square. We had made quick work of the bread, and never had anything tasted so good! But when I cracked open my hard-boiled egg, a nasty surprise awaited me. Brown foul smelling juice ran down my hand. It’s rotten! I thought. Then I suddenly realized that under a thin layer of egg white was the limp, feathery form of a chick fetus! Jake had made his discovery about the same time, and switched on his flashlight to examine what appeared to be a tiny duck in each of our eggs. And so we were officially introduced to “balut”, a Southeast Asian delicacy.

Now, hunger can drive people to eat strange things. Hunger can cause things to look like food that would normally be considered waste, and for a split second, I thought about eating that thin layer of egg white. But then I realized it was egg brown rather than egg white, and once again I felt the sticky juice ooze across my hand. I tossed the fetus out, and then wondered what to do with the other two.

A funny thing happened. We found ourselves circling, and soon we parked back in the square. Something I had failed to learn the first time: drivers do not travel with anything less than maximum occupancy, and jackfruit or other merchendise does not count. This time a few little beggers came by while we waited, and they left with a Southeast Asian delicacy that filled their tummies and probably made their day.
In the meantime, we were still hungry. Dark was settling in with determination, and in the square the people traffic was thinning. A few yards away, a little light burned bravely over a small food cart. People were buying some kind of sandwiches there, so we went to investigate. A little old man greeted us with questioning eyes set in a tired face. As he prepared a bread roll, I looked into a bucket in the side of his cart. Down in the bottom was a mix of something that looked a little like coleslaw with red pepper. The little old man scooped a spoon into the slurry and plopped it’s contents onto the bread.

What am I eating?I wondered, trying not to think about it too hard. I sunk my teeth into the “sandwich”. It was a little salty and sour and spicy, and something in it betrayed the fact that it had spent a long day sitting in that tub. My eyes started to water, but it was substance, and i was hungry. God, please just keep me from getting sick. It was comforting knowing I wasn’t completely at the mercy of the Germs, but my life was in God’s hands.

Another woman joined us on top of the load of jackfruit. She was a buxom, motherly figure, with round cheeks and a twinkle in her eye. She looked at us curiousely, chewing on our sandwiches, eyes watering, two white strangers in a strange place. We made a few fumbling attempts at communication, and finally fell into companionable silence.
Our truck rumbled to life again, and we drove to the opposite side of the square. Our hopes of attaining more passengers seemed to have died with the daylight, but it was clear that we weren’t going anywhere with what we had. Over two hours passed over the little square before we finally had eight passengers perched on the truck. As we pulled out of town, we took our positions around the truck bed. The motherly woman and an accomplice had settled themselves in the center of the load, and seemed to be grow outwards, pushing the rest of us to the extremities.

The pavement dissappeared beneath us, and we dipped into a rut, bounced up again, and our pace was set. I found myself once again clinging to the back corner of the truck bed, trying to stay on and keep my legs as well. Only this time I couldn’t see green trees or villages passing, only swerling red dust and trucks and buses zoom close by through the darkness. I twisted and faced the wind, hoping for some comfort, but I could hardly open my eyes because of the dust. The ladies in the middle grew a little bigger, and I clung tighter. It was going to be a long ride, and all I could do was pray that I would make it.

After a few miles, I began to feel as though dirt was being crammed in every nook and cranny of my clothing. I tried to tuck my camera away beneath my coat, but space was scarce. Our Cambodian traveling companions, tiring of stairing at the foreigners through the dim moonlight, had wrapped shawls snugly around their heads, which bounced drowsily over the tirelessly rutted road. I looked at them and wished I had a nice big cloth to wrap around my head. Instead I turned back into the thick wind, and thought about the adventures ahead. My teeth were already gritty with dirt, and the wind whipped away every sound, so I decided I might as well sing.

“Give me ears to hear your spirit, give me feet to follow through...” Steve Greene’s lyrics warmed my heart, reminding me of my life focus and the vision that burned warm and bright and steady, despite the circumstances. “Give me hands to touch the hurting, and the faith to follow you.” I inhaled a lungful of Cambodian red dirt, and looked up greatfully at the silvery moon above it all. “Give me grace to be a servant, give me mercy for the lost. Give me passion for your glory, give me passion for the lost.” There couldn’t possibly be anything flying into my lungs that wasn’t going to find a way in somehow, so I might as well make the best of it. I took another swallow, bounced again on that one sore spot on my behind, and then belted out the chorus with all the energy that had been frustration, “And I will go where there are no easy roads, leave the comforts that I know! I will go, and let this journey be my home. I will go, I will go.”
I couldn’t hear myself, but I could feel the words flowing out of my heart, through my lungs, past the dust, soothing the discomfort and sizzling with reality. The second verse seem to mingle with the dirty air, bumping along the road ahaid, and rising up to the cool night sky. Surrounded my the huddle of sleepy Cambodians, the dirty, the bouncy road, the silent moon seemed my only witness, drinking in the words and knowing in her heart that this was the way it was all meant to be, nothing more, nothing less. “I will go where there are no easy roads, leave the comforts that I know! I will go, because my life is not my own. I will go, I will go, I will go.”
The road to Siem Raep finally came to an end. For two and a half hours we had bumped and jostled and eaten dirt, half the time, nodding slightly, and then jerking awake again, gripping tighter than ever for fear of toppling off into the murky darkness, where headlights and tailights all seemed mixed together, and trucks and busses screamed by so close we practically had to do limb checks every fifteen minutes. Jake and I heaved our backpacks onto our shoulders and climbed wearily onto motorcycle taxis for the last little strip into the town.
Most of the shops were closed along the dirty street where the bikes stopped. A light shown from a bar, and a few men lingered around the front and in the alley. Father, thank you so much I’m not alone! I thought greatfully. To our inquiries for lodging, we were directed toward a little alley across from the bar. I was all too aware of our vulnerability, but we had no choice but to send up a prayer and trust people we didn’t know. Two young men sat in front of a small office, which was evidently a hotel. The showed us to a small dingy room with a restroom and a king size bed. A cockroach skittered across the floor. I wondered if it made our host’s mouth water.
“Is there another room?” I asked.
“No, only one room, I’m sorry.”
I looked skeptically at Jake, who wore his usual careless, unconcerned expression. This was the only hotel, the only room, the only bed available in the area. Every muscle and joint ached, including a few bones in the nether regions, and I wasn’t sure how long I could be left standing. My face was so brown with dirt I could have been mistaken for a local. Every time I moved, it seemed like dirt ground against dirt somewhere. I wanted that shower, and I wanted that bed. At last, I threw my bag down. It was worth five dollars and a small sacrifice in privacy.

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The source

4/23/2014

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(Full article published in Laymen Ministries News, 2003)

I stood on a large boulder and looked up at electric blue sky peaking through the jungle overgrowth. Colorful butterflies flitted among the bright green foliage and birds twittered somewhere out of sight. Below the boulder, a babbling creek danced into the arms of a strong stone dam that carried the clear gurgling water into a channel carved in the jungle floor. This lovely place is the water source for the village of Pinagbayanan, on the island of Mindoro, Philippines.

Nearby were my companions from the Digital Video Department of Pacific Union College. We had come from PUC to the Philippines carrying digital video equipment to document the missionary work that Laymen Ministries is doing in the villages. Our goal: to take back to America stories that would challenge hearts.

The residents of these remote seaside villages in Occidental Mindoro were accustomed to slashing and burning the jungles to flush out food. As a result of this and illegal logging, the jungle was becoming depleted. The indigenous people were often hungry and many were indebted to the wealthier class who moved into the villages from the cities to capitalize on them. Our hosts, the Laymen Ministries missionary team, in addition to providing an education, were teaching the villagers how to plant and sell rice, and this irrigation ditch provided water to the rice paddies.

I looked at the sparkling water and thought how different it was from another village we had seen. Their little stream, used for everything from toilet to laundry water, was discolored and foul smelling. The small bamboo huts and the earth around them was littered with debris. Afraid to release spirits from the earth, the villagers do not bury their feces, leaving them exposed to spread disease. I remembered little faces covered with dirt and mucus, some with crusty pinkeye and raw upper lips from rhinitis. Insect bites, scratched and festered, left little legs pocked with scars. Big terrified eyes followed our every move, but when we spoke to them, they hid bashful smiles behind their mothers skirts. Many of them wore little tags with the names of their church, with the understanding that God would recognize them and prevent sickness.

All too soon we began our trek back down the canal, which made a pleasant path until we reached the narrow trail several yards below the dam. Once again we pushed through the sharp grass and twigs that clawed our bare legs, and once again we came into the clearing where the bright blue sky shines off the shallow water in small rice paddies. But this time it looked different to me. In my mind’s eye I saw wiry brown men bent, digging and sweating to bring a new life to their families. I saw men clearing trees and hauling rocks, building dirt dikes and plowing stony soil. I saw water--fresh, life-giving water from the source on the mountain--rushing headlong down a shallow ditch, lending a bit of itself here and there to fill these small fields. I saw little green sprouts, touched by this source of life, pushing their way to the sky, sprouting their heads of fruit that would be harvested, eaten, and sold. I saw life, growing, thriving, spreading, all from the one little mountain stream.

We continued down the mountain to where Ma'am Ann was teaching in the schoolhouse. The children had come at the first ring of the bell, and I watched as 15 or so swept and gathered the leaves from around the mission house and schoolroom. I marveled at how well they did their work, without direction from the adults, and with their eyes fixed on the strange white people. Their eyes were big, but not frightened, and when I said, “Good morning,” they responded “Good morning, Ma’am!” with a smile on their clean faces. Their clothes are clean, and most of them are free of lice and parasites.

It began far across the sea in America, when the ultimate Source of Life was poured out on a man who determined to carry it here to the Philippines. Flowing through this living channel, the living water distributed itself among these young Tagalog families, who in turn carried it along its course, into the jungle villages along the coast. In Aglimasan village it flowed from the missionary into the heart of a quiet girl, who now says, “When I learned [that God was my friend], I knew there was hope for me.”

From the students this water flows into the tiny grass huts and warms the hearts of the parents. It distributes little bits of itself along the way in every kind act of the missionaries. It touches dry hearts and starts life wherever it pools.

We spent the weekend in the city of Sablayan, where Laymen missionaries conduct the prison ministries. We attended Sabbath services in four separate locations, and it was clear that the river of life is flowing through the Sablayan prison as well as the jungle villages. In the first services I watched Tony, a young man who is a new attendee, as he shared what he had recently learned in the Bible. He was so glad, he said, that he had learned about Jesus in prison.

“If I had not been put in prison I would probably be dead now," another inmate shared, “I’m so glad I came to prison so I could learn about God.” At one point the quiet girl from the village stood to share, and I could see the water of life flowing through her to the eager, upturned faces of the men before her.

“Jesus my Lord will love me forever...” a group of inmates sang. How incredibly beautiful it is when the water of life touches dry roots and causes growth like the rice plants, and the joy I saw on these faces. Another man stood to sing. His face was wrinkled and leathery, but behind thick glasses his eyes sparkled with life. Most of his teeth were missing, and he lisped a little when he sang in a thick accent, but I'm sure I'll never hear a more beautiful rendition of the hymn:

“God sent His son, they called Him Jesus. He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon, and life is worth the living just because He lives. Because He lives I can face tomorrow. Because He lives, all fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future, and life is worth the living just because He lives.”

High up a jungle mountain the electric blue sky peaks down at butterflies dancing among the bright green leaves. A shiny black and yellow spider sits in the sunshine on top of a boulder, overlooking a clear splashing stream. Not so far away, perhaps even as you read this, heaven looks down on small heads bent over schoolbooks, or a gathering of tough inmates singing, “I just keep trusting my Lord, as I walk along....” And so the water flows on, never ceasing, always seeking empty places to fill and overflow with new life.

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come fly with me

The road to Siem raep

The source

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