Erin's Journal

12/31 – Enroute (Tokyo-Singapore)

I guess this is as good a way as any way to start a journal. It happens to be several times at once right now. My body (particularly my eyelids) thinks it’s 3:15 a.m. on December 31, 2004. The clocks in Phnom Penh read 6:15 p.m. (12/31) and our current time is about 8:15 p.m. I’m not sure if we’ve left the Tokyo time zone yet. It has occurred to me (as I flip through this world clock) that the entire world is awaiting the New Year right now. No place is yet the 1st and every place has moved beyond the 30th. This is probably insignificant (after all, it happens every day, not the New Year, but…)

The flight from Los Angeles to Tokyo was intriguing. We chased the setting sun until it finally won and we landed. For a large portion of the flight, we lingered at that point where the night begins and the day ends. I could see the earth’s shadow cast through the atmosphere as we soared above the Northern Pacific. I saw icebergs; real, not on TV. I don’t know why that struck me so. I think the icebergs stood for all that is real and tactile in the world; things that are and that can be experienced in ways that a couch and television could never provide. I don’t know what they’re making (in the plane’s galley) but it smells bad.

1/1/05 (Cambodian Time)

Today was almost too much to describe. Our plane ride was extremely long. We traveled for a grand total of about 30 hours door to door (probably more). The ride from the airport to the hotel was amazing. I have never experienced anything quite like it. We drove down the only paved road on that side of town. Every storefront opened to the street and spilled out onto it. Most of the sidewalks were dirt; some were paved; some were cobbled. Almost everybody rode motorbikes, sometimes an entire family fit on one bike. Almost all of the women rode sidesaddle. We could see side streets where there were open air markets carved into the cityscape like fractured glass. In every lot, children played soccer, badminton or just played. An old man pulled a large cart. He was shirtless and bent almost double. I could see his spine and ribs pressing through his skin.

The phone book on my bedside table is for all of Cambodia. It is smaller than Long Beach’s. Cambodia has 13 million people.

My arm hurts from holding the camera. Time for a good night’s sleep.

1/2/05

Today was another amazing day. We went to meet the Little Sprouts today. These are the little kids that we are working with. We drove to this place next to a monastery, and there were kids everywhere.

1/3/05

Still not as much sleep as I would like. We went to bed at 10:30 and woke up at 5 a.m. I watched the sky grow light through the bars on our room windows. Every window here has bars, even windows on the top floor. The bars are all in a different configuration. Some are grids; some are more ornate. The bars are always on the inside of the window. Why are they there? Burglars don’t climb that high. Perhaps they are left over from the war era, a type of reinforcement. Maybe they’re here to keep people in. Don’t jump; it’s not that bad.

1/5/05

Day Five: Wednesday. It’s hot. I’m in the sun—not so smart.

Today we talked shot lists. We have decided to split the work up into segments. It has been hard to think of the documentary as a whole. We want to create a background piece on Buddhism, one on the violent past of Cambodia and one about the daily lives of the children we are working with. A piece about “what we wake up to every day.”

For some reason right now, I feel like I am accepting this city for what it is. I’m no longer looking at it through the eyes of a tourist. I feel a great sense of home now. It is less foreign. Yesterday, I walked around after breakfast. I think that may have had a lot to do with it. I walked until I felt comfortable. I got used to the looks. My mannerisms became more relaxed, and I felt less obvious as a result.

This is such a monoculture here. Back home, we have so many nationalities represented that it feels strange to me to now see so few.

1/11/05

I haven’t written in a while. We have been busy. All of the projects are now under way. We have primed the canvass at Cambia Kids, and the drawings have already been sketched out on the wall at Little Folks. Yesterday, we spent at Little Folks.

We boarded a Tuk Tuk and bounced our way over. To get there, we drove across Phnom Penh. We passed storefronts filled with people. Everywhere we went, the streets were packed. After one major road, we pulled off onto a small dirt road that led past a small market area. Here, you could find a lunch of fried crickets, coconuts, chicken BBQ or simple stir-fried noodles. One could go to a walk-in dentist or get your hair cut on the street corner.

Everything was covered in a fine layer of the orange dust that lingers in the air from passing cars and motorbikes. People watched us as we passed by, kicked up more dust to settle on their businesses. The roads were potholed and rocky. Our Tuk Tuk made noises like metal ripping apart as each tire fell into a pothole.

The most popular means of fencing is barbed wire. Every house has a little. Like so many things here, it is a constant reminder of the terrifying past these people have experienced. During the Khmer Rouge, 2 million plus people were systematically killed like animals, twice the current population of Phnom Penh and one ninth of the current population of Cambodia. Of course, everyone here estimates that number to be low. Many of the men involved in the Khmer Rouge government still hold cabinet positions, today. The people here will not speak out about their government. But their mistrust is spelled out with every child who grows up holding on to their very own barbed wire fences, with every upper class Cambodia who hired their own security company to guard their front gate. There is so much beauty and life resting on a constant shadowy fear.

A mother who swept her porch followed my eyes as we drove past. Our driver had slowed down to navigate the road.

The “Little Folks” were happy to see us. They each ran up in turn waving to us and saying “hello.” Each “hello” has a sound of joy in it, like they are so happy just to be communicating with us. When we pile out of our Tuk Tuks, the kids come up to us and bow with their hands clasped (like in prayer). I can’t help wanting to pick them up and carry them around, just to see the smiles. These children have parents with AIDS. Many of these kids have only one parent, and the child must become the caretaker. All of these kids, some as little as 4 or 5, will be forced to grow up too fast, if they haven’t already.

1/14/05

I love these kids. I feel guilty. I feel selfish. These children give us so much. Our three weeks here feel like a small gift compared to the joy they have given me. One little man wearing flip-flops, shorts, a plaid shirt and a grin from ear to ear ran after our Tuk Tuk for three blocks. He couldn't stop laughing. The road he ran on was little more than dirt and rubble. He did not seem to tire. If joy was all the energy he needed, I'm sure he could have run forever. I don't feel worthy of his honor, his selfless giving. How can what we give compare to that? I want to see him chase, not me, but his own ambitions; running over the rubble of his family's tragedies as easily as the rubble in the road.

He loves to take pictures, that one. When I take out my camera, he is instantly in front of me. "One more," he gestures. With the camera strap still around my neck, he leads me by the camera to the picture he wants to take. I do my best to estimate the zoom, F-stop and focus for him. So far, he only knows how to point and release the shutter. Once he starts, they all want a turn. But he is always the one who starts it. He doesn't like being in the pictures so much. Here he stands out. Sometimes I force him to stand with his friends. I try to trick them to stand in better lighting by moving myself, the epicenter of our little photograph tornado. Occasionally, I get frustrated by this constant chaos. I make the mistake of stopping them to take the picture myself. My photos have an academic elegance that lacks any real emotion, while their pictures are infused with a pure chaotic joy that speaks for them far better than I ever could. Their lack of restraint and joy at creation put all my boasts to shame.

Perhaps true artistic freedom is not knowing that what you are doing is Art; to be able to create, unburdened of the knowledge of your work's consumption. I wish I could feel that.

1/23/05
4:00 pm (LA time)
Sunday

This is my first full day home. Not even 24 hours have passed and already I feel Cambodia slipping away. The sensation of being there, the experience, I am trying to keep present, like continuing to read after dusk without turning on the light because it will ruin the memory of the sunset. How long can I last?

My clothes are spilling out of my pack and onto my living room floor. They feel alien. Like dirty costumes left over from a forgotten play. They resemble nothing of me. As do all my possessions, my home, my clothes, my books, my pictures, all are clues to a me that was. Old things I had forgotten about now feel more important, plays I always wanted to read, drawings I did when I was six. I feel like I'm trying to rediscover the me that was before I left, and compare that to the me that is now. The clothes from my bag resemble neither. Why are possessions the props of our identities? No object or collection can delineate that which combines to create us; and yet the path of our lives is littered with the purchased detritus of our quest to define self. When will we as a culture realize that it's not the hat or shoes we wear, but the person whose hand we hold, whose heart we share that will bring meaning to our lives?