Stories and adventures as representation

Although I have the means to travel comprehensively in Cambodia (language, knowledge of transport and prices, risks, dangers, etc.), I realized recently that I have surprisingly few bonafide independent 'adventures' under my belt. Honestly, I am not sure if that is a concern necessarily, as the whole concept of 'adventure' is a shifty subject that, as I now understand, is wholly dependent on publicizing ones experiences in the specific manner to a sympathetic audience. Indeed, the 'adventures' that I refer to are those that have historically been defined by backpackers and expatriots of the past few decades, and before that British travel writers. They have crystallized the essentials of a story about an adventure and we are largely paying homage to them with each story we relate to our friends and family. I hate to be prosaic (and my colleagues in the Development Studies department back at Oxford would cringe to hear me say this) but, indeed, 'adventure' is socially constructed. My uncle Avi, a master story teller and a good critic of others' stories, kept up a long series of exchanges with me that he aptly titled "How shit works in Cambodia". For him, anthropological depth and perspective are key ingredients for filling in adventures. For others, a bit more danger or suspense is required for a good adventure. Whoever the audience, the important ingredient is not the exotic or the dangerous that is, in itself, intriguing, but how that adventure is woven into a story that is ironically about oneself rather than the context (even if the storyteller is not an actor, he can be present in a good aventure by means of being the analyst of the context). By that, I posit that storytelling is essentially a subtle means of endearing oneself to an audience and explaining something about oneself without being overtly self-centered. So yes, this blog is indeed tainted by my own self-centeredness (I mean, why write a blog anyway?).

So if stories are the means by which we publicize adventures, why and how has humanity let itself be carried off on the winds of the subjective? In their book "Animal Spirits", George Akerlof and Robert Shiller (two American economists) describe the contradiction between economists' view of the rational human and the fact that irrational stories have had an enormous influence in people's economic behavior. I am frequently reminded of this whenever I get into a discussion/argument/fluster about the Palestinian/Israeli situation. The narrative of either side is often so radically different while at the same time being more-or-less factually correct, that the result is indefinite gridlock. And ramming facts into people's faces is often counterproductive because the various stories behind those facts are the basis for the emotions people have, which are not easily changed. And the longer those stories (i.e., the stories that distort the facts) fester, the stronger they often become. Israelis are always good for an example, so I will choose them yet again. In this case, I'm looking at the horde of young post-Army Israelis who will most likely visit India, Thailand, or somewhere in Latin America after their service is over. The casual justification for these post-Army travel binges is the stress of the Army and the need to get out of tiny-little Israel. The real reason, these days, is more likely that one has been fed stories of adventures in India through her breast milk and by her friends for so many years that the social pressure for traveling in an adventuresome way (i.e., not being a tourist) is very deep. Stories upon stories continue to feed this trend and no "fact" such as "the longer the trip after the Army, the poorer one's job prospects are afterward" will stem this flow of Israelis to India.

So without further ado, let me launch into a somewhat stereotyped story about an adventure that I had this week. It includes all the essential ingredients of a good story except one thing -- that I prefaced the story with another story about how stories work. Just think about the past two paragraphs as you read the next three.

One of partners in Cambodia is a traditional healer who lives up on the holiest mountain in Cambodia, Phnom Kulen. He moved up there in 1992 after 13 years of helping rebuild and repopulate Phnom Penh after Pol Pot was removed from power by the Vietnamese in 1979. Although much of Cambodian medicine was ignored during the revolution because of its relationship to Buddhism and the pagoda, Mr. Heim was still sought after as a healer while he lived and toiled away in his native province of Svay Rieng. Of course, he had learned much of what he knew of plant botany and herbal remedies during his 12 years as a monk. Medicine and a more spiritual way of life were something he missed while living in Phnom Penh and they were a big part of his reason for moving up to Phnom Kulen in 1992. He says he would have gone earlier, but Kulen was one of Pol Pot's last holdouts and was not demined until 1992. On top of Kulen he has carved out a life for himself and now is respected and known simply as "Grandfather Heim". But most of his family is still in Svay Rieng and he is bound by his own familal piety to maintain a strong connection with his home province. This year marked the one year anniversary of the death of his father and he was organizing a big festival in his parents' honor back in Svay Rieng and he graciously invited me to attend, as his god Son.

My journey started rather lazily at 9am, when I set off for the taxi station at Olympic Market under the foolish assumption that his hometown was a measly one hour away and I would be there in time for a shower and a nap before things got underway at 3pm. After being dragged left and right by some taxi touts, I ascertained that a car heading for the specific district I needed wouldn't set off for another hour. I walked to a nearby cafe and slurped through an iced coffee for an hour and came back, only to find a disheveled van filled with yapping villagers and over-ripe mangos. As per the custom, I loaded myself in and sat there sweating for a while to help the driver create the illusion of having a "filled car, ready to go". 20 minutes later we set off -- well, we set off for another 10 different markets in which we picked up one or two passengers each and some random cargo. After two hours, and at around noon, the car finally jostled its way onto the national road heading for Svay Rieng. At this point, I had learned that not only would the ride by a minimum of three hours (not one), but would involve a rutted out road for the last hour. I just hoped I would make it in time to avoid making my sweaty appearance in front of every guest at the ceremony. Instead of hurrying on, the car stopped in some other villages to pick up more passengers, in total squeezing 5, including me, in the front bench (with a stick shifter). Three dusty and yappy hours later, we pulled into a little village whereupon a motorbike driver approached me and said he was sent by Grandfather Heim to bring me to the festival. His story seemed credible, so I jumped on and 20 dusty minutes later, arrived just in time to have the whole ceremony turn and lapse into silence as a (disgruntled and exhausted) foreigner showed up. After being whisked from one table to another and "sompya"-ing (palms together greeting) a hundred guests, they allowed me to freshen up. All I had time for was to throw on some baby powder and change my shirt. Upon emerging from the toilet, I noticed that my shirt had already been smudged by dust and moisture and I tried my best to rub it out, only managing to drop my phone and crack the LCD screen in the process.

Noodles later, the crowd started dispersing for various elements of the ceremony - some for meditation with the monks, some for fireworks, and others for negotiating whose daughter/son would be marrying whose son/daughter. I wandered between all the stations, almost getting married off at one, almost falling asleep at another, and almost being immolated by fireworks at another. More noodles ensued for dinner and dancing began, which I was of course obliged to do. After 20 some-odd Cambodian weddings, I was already used to this madness and just went with the flow, being dragged from the dance floor to the rice wine table and back to the dance floor at regular intervals. Various nieces of Grandfather Heim tried, in turn, to wink and flirt with me in their own ways and various gay members of the family also gave it a go. At some point, I extracted myself for bed, awaking to rice soup and prayers with the monks. After a lavish event in which Grandfather Heim gave away a mountain of gifts to the 20+ monks in attendance, they loaded me into a van full of monks bound for Kompong Thom (by way of Phnom Penh) and waved goodbye. The ride was exceptional. Not only is it rare to see monks sweat, but a few parts of the trip were punctuated by monks fainting from heat exhaustion and being roused with menthol rubs. Most of the monks were in their teens and were clearly still struggling with their holiness and their childishness. They cat-called at many a cute passing motorist to the chagrin of the monk superior. We stopped for lunch, which is the monks' last meal, and I got to see them all gobble down three, four, sometimes five plates of rice in preparation for the evening fast. A rest break in Prey Veng province followed by a prayer session and a fruitless hunt for ripe mangos in the village gave my body time to cool down and get ready for the long, hot, ride back into the Penh. Our last moment was particularly bizarre. They dropped me off on a road not heading for Kompong Thom and wished me goodbye. As they drove off, I called out "Where are you going now?", expecting everything else but their response: "To Sovannah Mall!"