Pure shores

In Cambodia the last quarter of the year is marked by a couple of long holidays, the first of which, called Pchum Ben happened last week. This is roughly equivalent to Todos Los Santos in the Philippines. The whole festival actually lasts 15 days but only the final three days are observed as non-working days. This is the time when most of the people in Phnom Penh (and other urban centers in Cambodia) go to their home provinces. Phnom Penh becomes a ghost town all over again. Think of Manila during Holy Week.

Last year, I observed this holiday by hosting a three-day eating, magic-singing, mahjong-playing, and alcohol-drinking extravaganza (chronicled HERE) that left me fatigued but fulfilled. This year, I decided to go out of Phnom Penh for the first time and return to Sihanoukville. Memories of my wonderful trip to Sihanoukville last June are still fresh in my mind, and I’m hoping to have a great time again in this visit. I told my friend D to include me in her plans of organizing this weekend excursion to Sihanoukville. We got a corporate rate in one of the bigger hotels there through the company that her brother works for. The seven of us (me, D, her brothers K and Y, Y’s girlfriend M, Y’s sister C and her boyfriend J) set out to leave Phnom Penh on the morning of September 27, Saturday. A was part of the original group, but became unsure because of her husband’s erratic work schedule.

As the only homosexual in the group, I braced myself to be prepared to think of ways to entertain myself in case things get boring in their company. I mean, this is not the first time that I’d been the solitary homosexual in a group. My last trip to Sihanoukville comes to mind (though the heterosexuality of that group is debatable, since I was able to bed one of them–but I digress). So, in order to load up on some good ol’ gay energy, I accepted my friend E’s invitation on Friday night to attend the send-off party he’s throwing for his boyfriend R. This was my chance to bond with my fellow homosexuals, many of which I haven’t seen in quite a well.

The party went well; I met some badly-missed friends (and saw some faces I’d rather see in hell–not that I’m going there, hahaha!) and I think I made some new ones. And I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol! After leaving the party, my friends R and T, along with new friends S and D went to have some hot bobo (Cambodian porridge) before finally going home at 3AM. I neglected to pack the previous evening so by the time I finished packing and showering (presumably to prepare for going to bed), it was almost 5AM. Instead of sleeping I went to the kitchen and prepared ham and cheese sandwiches that D asked me to make so we can have something to nibble during the 3-hour+ trip to Sihanoukville.

They picked me up promptly at 8AM and after a long-ish breakfast of coffee and noodles at a restaurant on the airport road, we were on our way to Sihanoukville. I don’t easily fall asleep inside moving vehicles so I spent most of the trip chatting with D and listening to my iPod. It started to rain when we were about 5km away from the town proper and the wipers of the van weren’t working. We inched our way in the winding road before we finally arrived at our hotel at about 1PM. Before we checked into our respective rooms, we agreed to meet on the lobby at 4PM so we can spend the rest of the day on the beach.

However, sleep deprivation caught up with me. In spite of setting the alarm on my cell phone, I woke up around 4.45PM and saw D’s sms and missed calls. I decided to lay back on the bed and just wait for any of my friends to call me, perhaps, for dinner. About 15 minutes later D came knocking on my door. I was going to the beach after all. The rest of them were comfortably seated along the beach, in front of one of the bars/restaurants that lined the area. Some of them had swam, while the others are snacking on grilled squid dipped in a sweet and spicy sauce.

After seeing other friends in various parts of the beach and having a dinner of grilled pork ribs, tuna, and shrimp, we decided to drink Vodka and Red Bull, which D said tasted great. Well, we tried it and to say that we liked it would be an understatement. Picture this: our group consisted of 7 people, and before the night was over we had downed 8 pitchers of this wickedly delicious cocktail. Lots of photos were taken to document our increasing degrees of inebriation; the kind of cam-whoring that would probably have to be suppressed if any of us would have a political career in the future. All my apprehensions and fears of getting bored proved unfounded and were washed away with the tide. And I slept happily drunk.

An unremarkable breakfast awaited us the next morning, forcing us to eat something else when we got to the beach. The day was largely overcast, but my skin felt the sun’s heat nonetheless. The waves at the beach were quite huge; I spent most of my time in the water dodging waves. I can swim but I’m not a very good swimmer. Around noon, when we got tired, D and I went back to our lounge chairs by the beach and sunned ourselves, leaving the rest of the gang in the water. A jetski sped off from the shore with a start, and I got up to look. I saw it weave through the group. It was then I noticed that they were farther from the shore than when we left them. I saw a couple of guys jump from a nearby boat to swim towards them.

I told D that I think something was wrong. I had thought that the jetski had hit one of them. One other guy, who probably jumped earlier, was clutching B (my good friend’s daughter) as he walked to the shore. The rest of them were heading back too. At this point D was also sitting up, and we exchanged worried glances. Two guys were literally carrying Y (D’s brother) to the shore. He looked severely exhausted. We later learned that the waves got too big and soon B was swept away. B is a good swimmer but she’s still a child so she couldn’t get back to the group. Y tried to get to her but he was overwhelmed by the waves as well so that he also needed help.

We were thankful that the mishap was a small one. I mean, if not for the tourists who helped them, things would have ended badly. Dazed, we sat around the beach. The weather seemed to agree; rained started pouring late in the afternoon and didn’t stop until the evening. Our plan to spend the second night getting drunk in the beach was foiled. So we decided to go to Sokha Hotel to watch the Filipino band instead. This proved to be a good decision because the band was great. And they sang my requested song–one of my all-time favorites (Neither One of Us by Gladys Knight & the Pips). I ordered a great-tasting cocktail called Planter’s Punch that provided a much-needed buzz. We went back to the hotel around midnight.

Breakfast on Monday, our last day, was very good. We headed to the beach right after eating to swim for the last time before we checked out of the hotel at noon. Of the group, only K, D and I went back to the water. The waves were still too huge for comfort. The rest opted for massage on the beach. It was raining again when we drove to Phnom Penh. The driver failed to have the wipers fixed so this fact added to the excitement of the trip. It seemed that we spent the whole time eating the left-over food that each of us brought for the trip. It must have perplexed the two backpackers that hitched a ride with us.

Before finally going home, we stopped at KFC to have a much-delayed lunch. This in spite of all the food (snacks) we had eaten while travelling. They dropped me at home at around 5PM, while it rained heavily. That night, instead of going out, I plopped into bed and almost immediately slept.

And dreamt of the ocean.

Trip to Jerusalem

About 4 months ago I got recruited for a full-time position in an international NGO based in Kuala Lumpur. I didn’t expect that I would get the job, because I applied for it almost on a lark. This came at an awkward period as well. I’d just moved to a new flat and I was starting on a research project. I asked them if they’d be willing to wait for me to finish my consultancy and they said they were willing to do so. They sent the Letter of Appointment.

But as it happened the project I was working on got delayed so I asked them for another extension. The recruiter agreed, fortunately. They promised to send a new Letter of Appointment thereafter. Then I got sick and had to go back to Manila for surgery. While I was inManila, I followed up the Letter of Appointment but got no response. Weeks passed. I sent a number of emails.

Almost a month later I got a letter for the program director coldly saying that there have been delays in processing the work permit so they couldn’t send the new Letter of Appointment. And that if I have any offers, I should take it because they cannot promise anything until the approvals came. Her exact words.

After that I heard that the guy who recruited me, who was supposed to be my immediate supervisor, has resigned from the organization. I spoke with him and without directly saying, I understood that the working environment in the organization was not as dynamic as I thought. I asked him if I should still wait for the approval of work permit. Being professional, the guy said he can’t advice me to do anything, but I should prepare for the kind of working environment I will be in once I still accept the post.

Exactly a month ago I received a letter from the program director asking me to sign and send back the first (and only) Letter of Appointment so I could start in the middle of this month. This threw my equilibrium askew yet again. I asked my friends’ opinions, I thought about it a great deal, procrastinated until I thought my head would explode.

But what was I thinking of, really? Consulting work is risky–subject to a lot of conditions that could affect one’s ability to secure projects on a regular basis. Meanwhile, the post doesn’t have a spectacular salary but it’s a regular, monthly salary. Plus, the post fits into my long-term career path. And it would look good on my CV.

It should’ve been a no-brainer. To decide to pack up and leave. But I finally decided not to take the post and stay here in Cambodia for a little more time. I wrote the program director yesterday and informed them of my decision. After doing it, I suddenly felt unburdened and free. An indicator, in my opinion, that I made the correct decision.

I weighed the pros and cons of leaving and staying and the result was always a draw. I examined my own attitude towards change and I realized that the years have not dampened my thirst for challenges and adventures; of being able to leap into the unknown. Kind of like the manner I moved here four years ago. But when I looked further back at my experiences, I realized that while I have retained a good amount of my youthful brashness and confidence, I have also learned from past experiences and more importantly, to trust my intuition. And bells are definitely tolling when I think about the kind of work environment I’d be getting into.

And while I initially thought that my life here in Cambodia has become too comfortable, recent developments have clearly shown that my life here remains as dynamic as before. Cambodia is changing before my eyes, and these changes bring a new sense of mystery I’d like to examine and explore, for a little more time. And so I stay.

When you’re gone

Why do we cry when someone dies? What do we mourn? The loss of a loved one? A life in general? Who do we grieve for? The dead person, who might be a family member, or a friend? Or do we grieve for ourselves, because we were left behind?

When I was eight, my uncle died of complications of asthma. He was 28 years old. During the wake, I cried probably because I saw that everyone was crying. He was too young, everybody was saying. I know now that I cried because I understood that it meant I was never going to see him again, this uncle who gave me the nicest gifts and who took me regularly to the neighborhood ice cream parlor. I was crushed by this loss.

When I was 22 another uncle died. My family was more devastated by this loss, I think, because it happened when everyone was already comfortable with their lives. Nobody saw it coming. I was sad, but didn’t cry as much as I did 14 years ago. I’m not sure why. I probably learned to suppress a lot of things in the time that passed that I seemed so calm when everyone was visibly distressed. But I was sad. I mean, I grew up with him. He was my god-father. I was more sad, I remember, for the family he left behind, his wife who was totally dependent on him, and their adopted son, who was just 5 years old then.

Having someone die on you is extremely difficult, but living after this death is a more daunting task. A death in the family can either bring a family closer or wrench them apart.

In the last 5 years both of my grandmothers passed away. My father, grandfather, and uncles took this hard, but they seemed to recover with the resiliency of trees that braved a typhoon–a few leaves and branches short, but still standing. I like to think that they’re like this because of the tough lives that they have faced.

On my maternal side, however, the story is different. My mother and her siblings took her death equally hard. And in the 3 years since her death, I’ve seen how their relationship have been frayed and torn by squabbles that mirrored the most melodramatic telenovelas that can be seen on television today. These squabbles have happened before, but now, without my grandmother to mediate and judge, these conflicts have become protracted. My mother, being the eldest, is most affected but she can only do so much. Makes me glad I’m an only child, to tell the truth.

When someone dies, we are fond of saying that s/he died before her/his time. I think this statement is erroneous. I mean, who knows when our time is up anyway? Does this mean that only old people deserve to die? Death doesn’t work this way. I doubt if anybody knows at all. Neither age nor accomplishment is the measure of a full life. What is a person decides that another person’s time is up? What if the person decides his own time is up? What if the decision to die or remain alive depends on a prognosis? Murder, suicide, and disease probably operate on the same randomness and chaos that our lives tread on.

I am writing this punch-drunk, after a late night spent with friends old and new. They have so generously provided me with a glimpse of their beating hearts and their throbbing pains. I wish I have their courage to expose their grief to my scrutiny, to my clinically-detached words and reactions. But I realize I don’t.

And so to make up for this cowardice, I feebly offer these words.