home.

it's nice to be back in san francisco... the people are chill, the values are liberal, and the weather's always predictable - bring a light coat. at a quaint downtown café, where heavy-framed mirrors cover the walls interspersed with vintage liquor posters, patrons grab small tables to sip their coffee with a magazine or newspaper grabbed off one of the racks. overhead, ceiling fans spin gently to the pulse of the casual atmosphere, and a light stream of french tunes emanate from hidden speakers.

as i take a seat near the corner of the café for a spot of brunch, the little girl from the table beside me plays peek-a-boo with the sheer window curtains as i smile and play along. a glance at her table reveals she had already been hard at work before i arrived, doodling cartoons in a spectrum of colors on the disposable paper placemats, which cover the linen tablecloth. her mother and father, who are still finishing their meal, chat amongst themselves and seem to have left their daughter to her own devices. on the hardwood floor between my table and theirs, several stuffed animals lay by the wayside, waiting to be picked up or remembered. as i eat my order of eggs, toast, smoked salmon, and hollandaise, the little girl begins playing with a tiny stuffed-animal duck on my table, and i play along until she retreats back to fiddling with the curtains and her own unfinished plate of food.

near the end of my meal, the little girl and her parents prepare to leave, gathering the stuffed animals from off the floor. as her mother, dressed in a bright neon-pink dress and a large sparkly-green bow in her hair, and her squeeze by to leave, i say bye to the little girl, but her mother [in un-san-fran fashion] makes no attempt to interact with me, and i don’t either, deciding it would be best to give them their peace and privacy instead. it’s hard enough dealing with the press, i imagine. the little girl goes to join her father, while her mother gives a friend of theirs a parting hug and mentions something about going back to iceland soon.

i finish brunch and stroll the streets around chinatown, passing by racks of counterfeit goods, barrels of dried foodstuffs, boxes of vegetables, and carts of shiny gimmicks for tourist. chinese women on street corners hand out sheets of paper printed with menus, in an attempt to coax hungry passer-bys into a meal of good dim-sum, but know enough not to try persuading the asians. foreign tourists filter into and out of storefronts, while locals pick through piles of vegetables or saunter the sidewalks with their hands clasped behind their backs. two young women stop in the middle of the road for a photo in front of a restaurant backdrop, while two others choose a backdrop of the pagoda-topped “trade mark” building instead.

i make a stop in old st. mary’s cathedral, and in the dark foyer glass-covered display cases glow before visitors' eyes, which browse various black-and-white photos from the early 20^th century. some images show the city at a time when the structure was the tallest around and the first cathedral in california, while others show it in ruin, consumed by fire from the great 1906 earthquake. as i step out the main doors and over the steps, which were once smashed by falling stonework a hundred years ago, i take a moment to awe at the city’s rebirth and lightning progress into its present state today.

a few blocks away market street is alive with a different type of buzz. still tourist-saturated in certain areas, others are much more noticeably destitute, with street-people, pawnshops, x-rated theatres, and as expected, more locals. rainbow pride-flags, in waiting for tomorrow’s gay pride parade, flutter atop light posts lining the wide thoroughfare, and police barricades sit already stacked on the sidewalks. as i wait baking in the sun for a bus, a glance down market reveals the ferry building before a sea and sky of blue. a look in the opposite direction however, shows a hill dripping with a thick white fog that churns and spills from behind twin peaks like dry ice. good thing i brought that coat.

san francisco, california.

this way up.

the view outside my window looks cold and wet as heavy clumps of snowflakes near the ground and immediately melt into a light rain. icy snow clings to the edges of my oval port-hole framing an airplane wing powdered white with a light dusting of winter as i sit in the drowning hiss of piped-in air and the on-and-off chatter between the two women behind me, who seem to find endless inspiration to banter on about dry skin, lotions, and soaps. as we wait for the plane to get de-iced, i can only close my eyes and mindlessly drift off into nothingness. i went to the doctor and he said "your skin's so dry... you should use dove." with an awkward popping crunch all along the roof of the plane, coupled with the utter steamy-smokiness that floods the view outside, it was clear the defrosters had arrived. ...but i've been using dove for years! as a man in a cherry picker hosed down the plane with a warm foamy concoction, it became hard to ignore the strange odor that began to pervade the cabin, no doubt coming from the defrost-cocktail and seeping in with the undying hiss above. the smell, a mix of pharmaceutical detergent and alcohol it seemed, was fresh, yet incredibly irritating, in the same way an all-too-clean restroom can smell incredibly irritating at times - stabbing at my nose and brain.

as the cherry picker outside pulled away and the plane skirted along desolate runways and snow-dusted lawns, we prepared for take-off. charging against the snow and against gravity, we climb skyward to the ratchet sound of propeller blades emanating from the very non-propeller turbine outside. blanketed in white-out conditions, looking as if a sheet had been pulled over my window, we seemingly navigate blindly through the color-purgatory, where even i have difficulty telling up from down. half expecting to see heaven itself silhouetted in the abysmal void, i imagine this is what that white light really looks like. breaking through the upper layers of cloud cover however, we emerge into the golden glow of sunshine, leaving the clouds below us, now just a thick vast sea of cottony dunes rolling into the distant horizon, looking even more heavenly than ever before.

somewhere over the midwest.

smiles un-ruined.

stepping off the plane and onto foreign tarmac, a strange feeling envelops me, clinging to my mind and soul, while the thick and heavy humidity clutches my skin as i don my cap to stave off the blazing sun. in this quiet little town, closed off on all sides by dense jungle, something strange is in the air. before me, behind white waving angkor wats against red blue fields, the main and only terminal of siem reap international airport is little more than a long squat two-story building flanking the deserted airstrip. turning around to take a look at the little putt-putt twin-propeller plane that brought me here, only then do i notice the green, flat, mountain-less landscape which surrounds me, looking ever-ready to sweep in and crush my little plane and this little airport if given the chance.

in cambodia, drivers’ seats are on the left and drivers drive on the right. in certain cases where cars are [most likely stolen] from neighboring thailand however, driver seats are on the right, but in either case little details like these seem moot when the roads, hardly more than steam-rolled clay, aren’t marked with lane lines and turn to a sticky muck after every downpour, becoming riddled with muddy potholes as if to remind me that yes, this area used to be rampant with deadly minefields, an uneasy suspicion tells me some areas still are. as the soles of my shoes are dyed a rust-red each time i step out of the car or out of the hotel, i get the feeling that even the earth itself has been stained by the blood of years long past and people long forgotten. despite the fall of the khmer rouge in the nineties, with other supporters still in hiding, the legacy of those four years of torture and extermination is now blatantly evident in the crippled country itself.

as i walk towards many of the ruined monuments of an ancient jungle empire, string and percussion music reverberate through the air, conjuring up ghostly images of a bygone era, with its lavish ceremonies and dancing nymph-like asparas. under the dappled shade from nearby trees, a few temple visitors have gathered to listen to a small band draw and hammer out traditional khmer music, dropping a few bills into their donation urn between songs. the bands, which can be frequently found along the small dirt walking paths to many temples, consist of landmine survivors, and most often, it is their missing arms and legs that attest to the fact.

in the outskirts of siem reap town, along one of the heavily potholed dirt roads and past the siem reap zoo, i visit the aki ra landmine museum. as i enter the gate of the small almost residential property, a young girl greets me in what appears to be military or scout regalia and cradling a baby monkey in her arms. passing the wall of the first wood-shack building in front of me, with the word "museum" spelled out in tiny green-plastic landmines, i come upon two men on a bench, whittling down one end of wooden rods into a point for mine probing.

in the main wooden building of the museum, different types of defused mines are stacked waist-high beneath little counters with pertinent information on the specific type of mine beneath. as i take a seat on a small stool, the legs of which have been fashioned out of defused mortar shells, i flip through a few small photo albums, each taking me on a snapshot journey through mine hunts and controlled detonations. around the museum a few kids play or lounge about, each a landmine accident survivor, and one wall here is specifically dedicated to telling the stories of many of them, all of whom came to aki ra to seek help after their accidents.

in such a sobering place, i find it hard to be cheerful, despite the smiles and laughs, which beam off the children’s faces. thanks to mr. aki ra the man and donations from humanitarians and visitors, it seems the museum has been doing a good job of sending children to school and teaching both young and old alike how to play traditional instruments, giving the thousands of carved asparas a tune to dance to and temple visitors something to enjoy.

life and development in siem reap moves at a creeping pace, except for perhaps hotel construction projects. in a town so dependant on tourism, they hardly use the country’s own currency, old stone temples and palaces from a thousand years ago are now rivaled by grand inns and sprawling resorts popping up like peddler-kids along airport boulevard – still however, as law requires, in charming khmer style. while foreigners own and run hotels, restaurants, and bars, real cambodians work as tour guides, taxi drivers, market stall owners, or peddlers, parroting the same exact few phrases everywhere to tourists in an uncanny eeire likeness. as if all of them learned it together, sir, you want to buy? they all shout. you want cold drink? only one dollar, you want to buy sir? when you come back, you buy only from me, ok? i remember you, you remember me?

as our driver drove us through rural siem reap and past vast acres of waterlogged rice paddies, i strain my eyes to look across the country itself - the horizon as clear as a black line between green and gray. on our way to visit a floating village by tonle sap lake and phnom khrom hill, seemingly the only natural mountain-hill in all of siem reap, our driver points out his house by the side of the road. while foreigners live in mansions (which are hardly mansions by american standards), real cambodians live in wood or bamboo shack-houses, either set on stilts or latched to bamboo bundles to avoid the ever-present threat of flooding. local cooking here entails building a coal fire and cooking the daily bought or caught ration of fish or meat – in some cases even dog, rat, squirrel, or frog meat – while in town, restaurants provide a choice of dinner options for tourists ranging from indian to korean to british pub.

compared to neighboring thailand, laos, and vietnam, cambodia is a fairly expensive country by dollar bill standards, while its people are incredibly poor. without foreign aid and without foreign visitors however, it seems much of the country’s people would cease to exist, slowly fading into the trees and into ruin. despite the tourism dependency, it is amazing that cambodia only recently received its first international automated teller banking machines, and then again only in the capitol of phnom penh. in the quiet jungle of town of siem reap, as tourists ignore the you-want-to-buy cries from swarming kids and the cups of landmine-crippled beggars, families trek for miles by motorbike to line up early at jayavarman vii hospital, founded by swiss man dr. beat richner, which provides free treatment to sick children.

sitting at dinner on the top floor of the soup dragon, i puff a cigarette and watch smoky ghosts alight from my table, off the balcony, and into the dark forests beyond. there is something strange about this place, i say to my friends. i can’t put my finger on it, but it just feels strange here. with such a history of rise and fall, of death and destruction, i begin to think that red dirt isn’t the only thing that follows me wherever i go. somewhat sorry that the ruined state of cambodia today is a product of the khmer rouge and its programs to eliminate intellectuals in order to create equality, i think back to the real ruins i came here to see – monuments to an era when it was these people who controlled most of what is now their neighboring countries. i simply have to look in the faces of smiling kids to see the resiliency of the people to years of war and listen to people speak to feel their honesty and commitment to never war again. always friendly and eager to please, the people i have met have been most gracious with help and hospitality.

after asking a little peddler-girl to play out a song for me on the flute she was trying to sell, i like many others, also finally succumb to the smiles and hand over my dollar, this time for the art and not for the flute, thoroughly convinced that the spirits who roam these lands are just as gentle and curious as the kids. able only to hope for the best, i know that any type of positive change for cambodia itself and its people, however slow, is ultimately a good thing. they might not remember me, but i will remember them.

siem reap, cambodia.