Laughter and chit chat...

Improvising Cambodia, Part 1

2010-03-14T22:02:00.001+07:00

Anyone who has been to a poor country, or even a poorer part of a richer country, knows how deeply improvisation is institutionalized. It's a matter of saving money, managing without the proper supplies/tools, and, as we find out, a matter of culture as well. In this series on improvisation in Cambodia, I'll be highlighting some stories that are not just "wow"-moments but also illustrate something perhaps a bit deeper.

The first story takes place on Sihanouk Boulevard in Phnom Penh, around 9pm. For the late evening, traffic is unusually heavy in my homeward direction but eventually I navigate my moped through the tangled mess of bikes, motorbikes, cars, trucks, and pedestrians, and reach the source of the problem. A bus is broken down in the left (passing) lane and the right lane is also partially blocked because they are arranging to use two vehicles to tow the bus onward. First impression: they're crazy -- it's hard enough towing a small vehicle with another, let alone towing a bus with two cars. But besides their willingness to engage in such a difficult maneuver, there are a lot of juicy elements to this situation that one can look into.

Firstly, the necessity. The broken down bus in question belongs to one of the biggest transport companies in Cambodia, so they probably have the resources (either equipment or money) to tow their buses professionally. But then again, "professionally" is a relative term in Cambodia and powerful tow trucks are much more difficult to come by even around the big city. Perhaps the most likely answer is that, against all odds, professional tow truck companies have shut their doors for the night and their employees are out drinking, or the company is demanding an extraordinarily high fee for the special evening service. Along comes an employee who promises he can arrange to do it with two cars and cha-ching, the cheap late-night solution.

Secondly, the logistics. What kind of tow cars are they using? One mini-van and one light truck. What kind of tow cables? Well, honestly, a mixture of different kinds of rope (fabric-based and plastic) anchored using t-shirts at the tow-points for extra support. How are the drivers of all three vehicles communicating with each other? Well, an extra helper is sitting on top of each of the towing vehicles where he can see the cables but is still close enough to relay messages to and from the driver. Now, the point is that the various factors have not actually been calculated in any meaningful way. Is the combined power of the two cars (given the angle they are towing) enough to move a bus? Are those ropes enough and can t-shirts really secure the anchor points? The quick answer, from my observation, is no. I arrived when lots of engines were being revved to no avail and t-shirts were flying into the air when their capacity was breached. And judging by the chaos of the yelling, communication was harder than they hoped. The other question: will they succeed? Eventually. At some point enough help (maybe even a third or fourth car) and enough pushers will arrive at the scene to accomplish the goal. A lot of chaos and yelling will ensue and many lengths of rope will have to be replaced, but the bus will get where it needs to go. Even in the countryside, when a bus gets stuck in the mud, entrepreneurial villagers emerge from the woodwork and, in sufficient numbers (50-100 people), can manually push or pull a bus from the mud. (Stories of those nature will come in a subsequent issue of Improving Cambodia).

Thirdly, the context. The traffic was light enough that, given half a lane, there should have been no backup of vehicles. But in true Cambodian fashion, rubbernecking passerbys were creating a 'gawkers block' that almost entirely blocked the road, leaving motorists a small and tricky passage over the sidewalk. In total, I estimate that about two hundred people and their modes of transportation (mopeds, cars, bikes, tuk-tuks) were gathered around the scene, some even watching from the other side of the median strip (thereby creating a bit of traffic in the opposing lane as well). Like rural people around the world who see little out of the ordinary, Cambodians (even, or perhaps especially?) in the city are, to put it frankly, nosy as hell. One could use the more neutral term "curious", and I have been encouraged to think in this fashion by others, but I still chalk it up to unabashed nosiness. For me, the line between curiosity and nosiness is drawn when people take their innocent observations into the non-innocent world of gossip. In the case of this bus, I'm betting it is more curiosity than nosiness but there will still be many mealside conversations discussing not only the "incident" but creating unjustified judgments about the bus company and their questionable towing practices.

Fourthly, respect. Cambodians are well aware of the ruckus they will create by initiating an extraordinary display of towing on one of the main boulevards in the capital, even as late as 9pm. As a result, it is as if they intend to work under conditions that complicate the situation. Consider the din created by rubberneckers, and the pressure created by having a few hundred eyes on your operation. And what about the poor motorists (like me) who are in a hurry to get home and find 9pm traffic inconvenient? All of those issues can be solved by hiring a police officer to clear the area and direct traffic. It is not bribery - you just throw him another $5 or $10 and he gets off his couch, puts on his uniform, and shows up dutifully to wave a baton around. Hiring out a police officer to de-pressurize the situation would also be a form of improvisation -- but apparently too much of an improvisation for guys who would dream up towing a bus with passenger vehicles...

(see you next time)

The coffee that was (not)

2010-03-09T18:23:00.001+07:00

At some point, the words "Java" and "Sumatra" became imbued with a mystique that seemed to automatically lend credibility to any coffee-related product bearing those names. I'm here to discredit that appellation a bit and sit down for an honest discussion on so-called Geographical Indicators for global agriculture.

First, the good news. Sumatra and Java do have at least one thing going for them in the realm of coffee. Here, I'm referring to kopi luwak (or civet coffee), the beans from which have a unique kick deriving from their having gone through the civet cat's digestive system.

Second, the surprising news. Sumatra and Java are unfortunately not mystical islands in the Caribbean inhabited by descendents of Atlantis who have grown majestic coffee in rugged jungles for thousands of years. Rather, they are islands of a rather corrupt Southeast Asian nation (Indonesia) that are being rapidly settled, deforested and saddled with feudal-style monocrop plantations of oil palm, rubber, and yes, coffee. Fairtrade has done an admiral job of raising attention to some of the most egregious issues here, but by and large, the romance of Java and Sumatra does not correspond with the reality.

Third, the bad news. There is nothing in the soils of Sumatra and Java that automatically leads to good coffee. Sumatra, for example, is a massive island, the 6th biggest in the world, and the largest producer of Indonesian coffee. There are pioneering farmers in the uplands who produce that romantic Arabica and usually deserve your romantic devotion. Then, there are massive plantations in the lowlands that churn out tons of generic coffee (mostly Robusta, though I won't judge Arabica vs. Robusta, just the farming system) that might find its way into instant Nescafe. Location of origin, in the end, often has little to do with quality. A diverse island with mostly industrial coffee plantations can somehow garner the same reputation as the artisanal upland farmers.

The above three points were mostly known to me, but my real inspiration for this rather cynical piece is a recent trip (March 2010) to the islands of Sumatra and Java that really pushed me over the edge.

And so lastly, the heartbreaking news. The denizens of the mystical lands of Sumatra and Java, rather than being awash in aromatic coffee, have a rather dismal coffee culture in their own right. Admittedly, some of this has to do with history and poverty but certainly not all. And there are, of course, the exceptions who sit around and sip bitter AAA (treepehl AH) and might know something about coffee. But by and large, they drink over-sugared, low-grade coffee out of a water glass and don't even bother to filter or steam it. I suspect they care little for the roasting, storage and grind, and likely dream of Starbucks Christmas Blend with caramel syrup. Okay that was harsh, but it reflects how dramatically disillusioned I was with the coffee situation here in Indonesia.

I suppose I was seeking some kind of validation based on my past experience with romanticized foods and drinks. Something like the Arabic/Turkish copper coffee boiler with cardamom or the Mayan/Aztec chocolate blends. Instead I found a few denuded islands exploiting an historic appellation and boasting little to no local passion for their agricultural product.

Consider the increasing subtlety and localization of wine and beer quality in Europe. French wine farmers have some of their proud production specified down to the square meter of land on which the wine grapes are grown. Belgian beer brewers have their fermentation specified down to the airborne bacteria in a certain attic space. Japanese Kobe beef producers can trace a steak back to a specific cow. And yet somehow the coffee from a feudal plantation owned by a corrupt Indonesian commander shares the same reputation as a small-scale upland farmer?

And then of course, location matters even less when one throws in the consequences of processing, transport and preparation. Coffee, in particular, is vulnerable to storage, roasting, and grinding conditions. And once it reaches your home or your neighborhood cafe, cooking matters considerably as well.

So, if location can be misleading and the farm-to-home adventure of the coffee is hard to control, what can a poor consumer do? It all seems too complicated to manage.

Well, first, use your nose and your mouth and your eyes. Coffee has a fragrance (before it is prepared) and an aroma (after it is prepared). The shape (or rather the geometric regularity) of the beans is important. And tasting is, contrary to popular Starbucksian belief, something that you, as the consumer, can learn. And if all else fails, find a local company that you believe knows something about coffee and let them do the work for you. Don't ever fall for packaging that claims to have the "best" quality or "finest" beans. And for g-dssake, don't fall for the Sumatra or Java romance. You've been warned.

Stories and adventures as representation

2010-03-05T09:20:00.003+07:00

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!"

A dirty reminder of home

2010-02-20T13:55:00.000+07:00

The title of a frontpage article from the 17 February 2010 Phnom Penh Post seems innocuous enough: "US warship in Sihanoukville". Naturally, the article is full of references to joint maneuvers and navy training exercises and whatnot, but it fails to mention that the appearance of a US warship also means the arrival of the 7,500 sailors and soldiers.

Having grown up in Portland, Oregon, the home of the fabled Rose Festival, I know what the dramatic appearance of several thousand sailors means for the level of prostitution in the innocent and welcoming host city. It's the same every year. Prostitutes from as far away as Maine, Canada, not to mention Mexico eagerly await the docking of several warships in the Port of Portland, because this entails not only many customers but perhaps a slightly more "escort-oriented" slant to their normal occupation. Prostitutes become "companions" to the lonely sailors and accompany them to parties, dinners, and on whatever drunken escapades are typical of the Rose Festival. This is usually matched with a resigned grumbling on the part of Portland residents and their casual avoidance of a few choice areas of the city.

Now, with the prostitution scene being what it is in Cambodia, one can only imagine the scale of things when a fat juicy warship docks in a town that is already rife with prostitution and, to beat, is only 10 hours away from almost every part of the country. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Vietnamese prostitutes weren't getting in on some of the action.

Although I am vaguely curious, professionally speaking of course, about what exactly this looks like on the surface in the town of Sihanoukville, I don't think I'll be able to muster the time and courage to make my way down there. And indeed, I'm sure there are plenty of good-willed masters students busy lapping up the naughty details as I write this, which I can then pick through in a most academic way down the road. I can, however, make one rather anecdotal observation from my ivory tower in Phnom Penh, namely that the number of meandering prostitutes populating the capital seems to be at a minimum. My interpreter says the profit ratio on sailors is probably 10-to-1, which does seem to be a sizable enough incentive to uproot from their usual haunts and get in a crowded taxi down to the coast. I imagine those taxi drivers are having a good time and are already gearing up for some unfair price increases for the Sihanoukville-Phnom Penh stretch when they hear about the departure of our friendly neighborhood American sailors.

The Locality of Contradictions

2010-02-16T22:30:00.003+07:00

High up on the holy mountain metropolis that is Cambodia's Kulen Mountain during a particularly lackluster Chinese New Year, I was once again accosted by an old demon that has plagued our (mostly White) kind since the early days of empires and colonial rule. Although the passage of time and the emergence of 'development' from the ashes of 'civilizing savages' have transformed it somewhat, white privilege still haunts me down wherever I go in the less fortunate parts of the world.

On this particular occasion, I was having a rather cheerful coffee with my assistant and two elderly men when the proprietor of the establishment decided to pick a fight. I saw it coming from a distance and arguably, I could have avoided being sucked in but my adversary was particularly persistent. He clearly had a bone to pick with some white tourists or something and, being able to communicate his anguish in Khmer seemed to embolden him further. It started as it often does with a casual, "So, how many hours does it take to fly from your land to mine?" The conversation should follow roughly this path: "Oh, that's a very long time. And how much does it cost to fly all the way?" ; "Wow, that is a lot of money. So many people in our poor country could live off that. I guess development agencies never thought of using their money that way." Usually, the conversation ends rather lamely with a critique of the United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC), which blew wads of money on an election that also brought HIV and corruption to Cambodia in a big way. But this particular chap ended with a resounding personal attack of, "...maybe you should think about that the next time you decide fly to Cambodia."

Having encountered this issue on numerous occasions, I prepared to unleash a number of defenses when, lo and behold, a black Lexus 4x4 with tinted windows saved me from most of the heavy lifting. Indeed, the timing on the arrival of said black Lexus was so spot-on, I could swear G-d was winking at me. With his window down, I could make out a Chinese Cambodian wearing a military fatigue at the wheel. And just when I thought the situation couldn't turn more in my favor, a mini-van loaded with (illegal) timber careened by following the Lexus, spraying us and our poor coffees with dust.

Just to provide some of the cynical background to this situation, let me elaborate on the Lexus phenomenon. Firstly, the Lexuses (what exactly is the plural of Lexus, anyway?) we, as privileged Whites, generally think of are the sedan variety, usually beige or tan, with some old rich bastard or his wife behind the wheel. The Cambodian variety, which is an adaptation meant for brutish drivers who are often forced onto bad roads, is the 4x4 variety with the brand name "Lexus" emblazoned in letters as big as fashionably possible along the side. Secondly, as a share of all motor vehicles, Lexuses (and other luxury cars) are probably five times more prevalent in Cambodia than, say, Switzerland, but maybe only two times as prevalent as in some Gulf countries (the rest of the passenger cars are primarily Toyota Camrys and Grace mini-vans). Thirdly, as with cell phones, owning a Lexus is a priority put above having a decent abode; having a big house is, ironically, more often seen (and criticized) as a luxury of the rich than a Lexus. Indeed, it is not uncommon to see people role up with their Lexi and bully their wife and children out of the living room or kitchen so they can park their car in what amounts to half of the house's living space. It is just that important.

But let's get back to the holy mountain. The general picture we are exposed to, as bystanders, is a corrupt military official who has abused his role to make himself rich and is, in front of our eyes, pillaging timber from the holiest mountain in Cambodia. With a mixture of glee and sad resignation, I turned back to my adversary to continue our discussion. Naturally, he was a bit more demure towards me now. I took that as a sign that I had won without -- and done so without even having to pick up a weapon. I smugly thought to myself that, surely, the waste and corruption of his own people must horrify him more than a foreigner who is surviving on scholarships and is, in the long-term, interested in the development of his country even as he pursues his own career. I was dead wrong.

After a quick murmur about how "...that guy probably didn't pay the 50 cent admission fee to the mountain [note: foreigners cost $20]", he turned back to me, expecting my answer to his earlier accusation. I was dumbfounded. How had that Lexus not succeeded in nullifying his hostility to foreigners to some degree? As I sat there, trying to think of what to do, he continued his calculations by saying, "...and even the tourists who think they are helping by bringing money here - they probably gave more money to some foreign company for the flight and bookings than they will give to Cambodians here." At that point, I realized that whatever prompted his hostility toward me was not about me, but about foreigners in general. While the general picture is that he sees foreigners as wealthy bags of contradictions, the trauma here is of course deeper than that and goes back, in all likelihood, to the Vietnam war and Cambodia's revolutions, and Cambodia's more general exploitation by foreign powers (Siam/Ayuthaya (Thailand), Yuon (Vietnam), the French, the Americans, and the Chinese) since the glorious Angkorean golden era. With current border disputes boiling over on the Vietnamese and Thai sides, it's no wonder that the frustration with foreigners (and not pillaging Khmers) galls him as much as it does.

Of course, there is also a counterpoint to this which restls primarily on various historical lenses and more current endeavors by foreigners, but I am pointing out here that the trauma here is beyond those rationales and, being fundamentally psychological in nature, is not about convincing anyone with fancy oral justifications. It is about shutting up and trying to do things more ethically than those that came before as. With that, I sipped my coffee and and sat in silence.

The parts we never heard of...

2009-06-03T14:42:00.002+07:00

Phsar Depot area, Phnom Penh--Cambodia. I suppose we take it for granted that cows have a complex system of internal organs, many of which do not resemble "beef" as we know it. Although there are undoubtedly small-scale farmers and restaurantiers who are aware of this "gray area", most of us in the West are pretty much used to three or four parts of the cow. I'm not sure if the terminology applies, but I suppose everything else gets lumped into a rather forsaken category known as "gibblets".

My experience in Cambodia thus far has mostly shattered that holy ignorance. The days of being "grossed out" by my mother's opting for cow tongue at the supermarket have been replaced with an almost daily experience with new and mostly unfamiliar cuts of cow. Now let me just say that I've been incrementally picking up the Cambodian words for various parts--I count about 10 new words added to my dictionary. But most of the time, when I inquire about the cow "part" I'm consuming, I end up having to learn a new word! Anyway, I should say now that the week-stomached should not read on.

In the first week of arriving I decided to take my friend and interpreter out for cook-it-yourself-beef soup. I've grown accustomed to this soup arriving with a few succulent and marrow-filled shanks stewing in it, but this time I was caught a bit offguard. The soup, which was very tasty in a gamy way I couldn't really associate with beef, came with slabs of a meat with a sheen on one side, and a strange "hair" on the other side. Visually, the hair reminded me a bit of a rubbery doormat. It's texture, however, was succulent and soft and I found myself enjoying it immensely. Eventually, I did inquire as to the part of the cow. My interpreter, caught by surprise himself, translated that we were eating cow teets. Indeed, upon closer inspection there were nipples and areolae and the shiny side did indeed have that striated look of teets. The first thought to go through my head was: given the popularity of chicken breast, why hasn't cow breast at least made it a little bigger? The answer is probably a combination of funky-looking texture and, more generally, the aversion to non-steaky beef.

Now, I had heard a bit about mountains of pigs feet being shipped from foot-averse Europe to foot-loving China, but... may I ask, what happens to all the other parts? Is the world market equipped to move that kind of product around or are we just wasting massive amounts of obviously edible meat?

The "temple phenomenon" in Cambodia

2009-06-03T14:12:00.002+07:00

Dear tourists to Cambodia,

I dearly respect that traveling and/or backpacking is not what it used to be. Being only 25 years old myself, I cannot hope to understand the raw adventures available to itinerant Westerners in the early part(s) of the 20th century, nor can I even imagine the sort of encounters we have come to know so well in Rudyard Kipling's classics about India. But remember and consider that the model of tourism emerging from Las Vegas, Caribbean resorts, cabins in the Alps, and cosmopolitan skyscraper hotels was not practically intended for underdeveloped places with patrimony to protect. These places have attempted to engineered their environments so as to avoid large scale exploitation and/or they embrace it as part of an historical narraitve (e.g., Las Vegas). In Cambodia, we are essentially borrowing our raw experiences of temples we visit from the environment, local development, and from the integrity of the Cambodian patrimony itself.

I am aware of the trade-offs: tourism also brings awareness and funds for restoration and, in some channel or another (though perhaps not he best one), some foreign currency into the country. While I am sure that every footfall on the grounds of Cambodian temples wears away at the stone, I am not suggesting that tourists should be banned from the site (although consider the fact that the grounds of Stonehenge have a buffer of some 10-20 meters). I am, however, suggesting that models for tourism at least nominally aim to provide some sort of balance between the expectations and demands of tourists and the need to consider the long-term restoration without distorting imperatives from visitors. In other words, I want to avoid a situation in which Cambodia, as a developed country in the 1950s, looks back at the damage to its temples and says, "was there a different way?"

The temple of Banteay Chhmar is one of the more far-flung of the Angkorean establishments and I believe the restoration is aiming at a far more thoughtful equilibrium. Consider this New York Times article. In the meantime, we throng to the blockbuster sites, which are actually sacred religion grounds, all hoping to achieve some sort of raw experience of antiquity. Ironically enough, we crowd now because we think the crowds in the future will be more intense. But crowding is crowding, and Angkor Wat is a rat race, whether we experience it with 1,000 other tourists or 3,000. But, to get an experience of the exploitation being wrought, visit a thousand-times-touched elephant relief in Preah Khan or, better yet, visit the untreated sewage flowing into the Tonle Sap fishing villages. Visit abandoned fragmented villages and paddy lands surrounding Siem Reap sold off by farmers, and outfitted with walls and weeds, awaiting some unknown glory days while their residents crowd the towns.

If I've made you feel bad, just remember that there are countless Thai generals out there with concrete stolen patrimony rotting in their gardens. Their respect for Cambodia and its history may be less than ours, but the aggregate effects may not be much different if we don't begin rethinking models for antiquities tourism with an ecological and culturally-sensitive stance.

A question of hygiene...

2009-05-30T14:50:00.004+07:00

After some more recent, and some longer-term experiences with Cambodians, I'm forced to conclude that hygiene is a subjective ideal--a state of mind rather than any specifically justifiable reality. To give you a sense of some of the contradictions:

On the one hand, Khmers would generally abstain from swimming in rivers or lakes which Westerners perceive as clean and suitable. On the other hand, they seem not to wash their towels more than once a year.
On the one hand, Khmers wipe down their eating utensils with paper napkins and drink only from straws because bottle/can rims can be dirty. On the other hand, they often eat lunch in the heat of the day from fly-infested pots of food that have been sitting out since near breakfast-time.
On the one hand, Khmers correctly believe that very hot frying sanitizes food. On the other hand, they don't seem to know that frying the same foods multiple times in old/rancid oil has other nasty consequences.
On the one hand, Khmers consider ice as a sanitary entity--to the extent that they mix it with their beer. On the other hand, their ice is made with melting-point-reducing chemicals and often shaved from blocks that have been transported around in the dust on dirty oxcart surfaces.
On the one hand, Khmers wake up every morning and spend a while sweeping their houses and patios. On the other hand, they tolerate exceedingly strong mildew odors in their living spaces and from their clothes.
On the one hand, Khmers are fastidious about showering and personal hygiene. On the other hand, they often install their leaky bathrooms adjacent to kitchens.
On the one hand, urban Khmers are careful to drink boiled water/tea or purified water. On the other hand, they swish their mouths out with tap water (more often than just after brushing their teeth).

Now, I don't posit from this that Westerners are lacking in such contradictions. My point here is that the conditions in a developing country means that some measures are taken for hygiene, while many other measures, for cost reasons, have to dealt with psychologically. Take the bathroom/kitchen example. Naturally, it costs less to install a water column in only one place in the house--so if you can share it between the kitchen and bathroom, you don't need to go through the extra expense of plumbing other areas. One can simply view the bathroom as a place of cleanliness and not as a dirty depository for human waste. Or take ice, which is perhaps even more demonstrative. If ice was transported in sanitary trucks, it would be more expensive--so it is easier to simply believe that freezing kills bacteria and that any bacteria that did get onto the ice during transport will be drained off as the ice melts before it is used. After biting into a few pebbles in my beer-on-the-rocks, I can assure you that hygiene here is more a matter of hope and belief than reality.

On a side note of a more grumbly nature--I realize that there is a spectrum in the construction industry ranging from minimalist and cheap to extravagant and expensive. But I swear, Khmer remodelings (and often new buildings) are constructed with a tree-house mentality. Wiring is done post-morten--which means ratty extension cords running everywhere. Thin particle-board walls are built without studs and matched with metal doorframes and solid-core doors. Hefty locks are fastened to wimpy and vulnerable chains. Sound-proof 8-inch thick cement side-walls are matched with hollow plastic-sheet ceiling material, to the effect that one hears everything going on at the neighbors place anyway. Nice faucets are matched with wobbly and ugly-blue plastic piping. Curtains are almost never installed--instead some jerry-rigged pulley system controls ugly plastic roller-out shades hanging in the patios. Nice glass panes are installed on metal frames that have no swing-control, to the effect that many people have at least one half-shattered glass door in their house somewhere. Nice stone thresholds are installed under doors that don't actually prevent the rain from coming in under the door. Mosquito nets are meticulously installed on all windows, but never on doorways, to the effect that bugs and fresh air are one in the same... anyway, the list could go on. Many of these things apply to houses I have lived in, but many are gleaned from houses that I have visited.

Cambodia--give me an angle, please!

2009-05-30T14:09:00.003+07:00

In the long process of getting settled into Phnom Penh, I've had to allow myself to be ripped off 10-25% on most occasions when I need something--whether it's extension cords, kitchen utensils, bedding, etc. This is the "price" that "we" pay for being foreigners. After all, in a country where museum admissions are multiplied by 10 for foreigners, it's only fair to expect that regular marketers will expect a little premium.

That being said, I do put my foot down occasionally and I use a few dirty tricks here-and-there to avoid some of the heftiest costs. When I bought my air conditioner, I picked out the model at one shop, then sent a Khmer friend to a shop across the street to bargain for the same model. Not ideal for the first shop, but that's their loss for trying to rip me off on such a big purchase. When I bought my motorbike in the province, I bought from family of friends so they dropped the foreigner-premium.

I have an even dirtier trick that I use when I do, in fact, know the price. I will try to bargain down to the normal price in a civil way, but if they insist on the foreigner price, I just give them the wrong amount (in an obvious way) and walk away from the shop with my purchase. If I was truly ripping them off, they would chase me down, but at that point they usually realize that it's not worth the hassle and anyway they still cut quite a profit. This strategy works especially well with motorbike taxi drivers if you have the correct change; get on the bike and tell him to drive to your destination. When you arrive, don't bother to haggle on the price--just give him the normal pay and walk away. He might beg for a bit more as you walk away, but at that point he's doing it on want rather than need.

Now--on to my real point here: in all these games, I am just trying to get down to the normal Cambodian price--but are there any situations in which I can get a better price? Well, indeed there are and these are also situations in which Cambodians cannot easily do better. The secret is of course a long-standing family tradition--garage sailing and buy-swell-swap with other foreigners. The ticket is to exploit Westerners' sense of second-hand prices. In Cambodia, the second hand market is thriving and people expect that second, third, or even fourth hand cell phones still retain much of their original value. Westerners' generally see second hand things as a nuisance to get rid of, and view their value is having been halved or more. I've furnished my house mostly with second hand stuff from other foreigners--amazing my Khmer friends with the deals I've been getting and all of the freebies they've thrown in.

One day, as I showed up with a fresh load of nifty furniture, my landlord sourly muttered in Khmer, "oh my, he is filling up my house!" And therein lies the issue: Westeners are consumers, and they accumulate, which means that moving entails the burden of disposing of their things. Khmer people are minimalists, sometimes out of necessity but often for cultural reasons, and they value everything they have. A Khmer person selling off things from his house would never, as a nice American mother did to me recently, just throw in an extra fan or sculpture or potted plant "just because". Contrary to the belief of my landlord, I view my apartment is modestly furnished: a living/eating space with an armchair, couch, and bookshelf. A bedroom with a bamboo closet, a bed, a bookshelf and a desk.

That being said, my neighbors, who share an identically-sized apartment, manage to squeeze four tweens into the same space and have almost no furnishings. A bamboo cot in front of the TV, a computer desk between them all, a few mats to sleep on, and a bowl for doing laundry. Occasionally, they set up a mosquito net. No plants, no space to eat except the floor (quite normal for Khmers), and just one place to lounge between them. I find them napping on the tile floor in positions that would leave me a bruise on my hip for a month. But then again, they effectively spend $30 per month each on rent and they probably spent $100 to furnish it, as opposed to $600.

Perhaps rather incongruously, they each own motorbikes valued at around $1500 and cell phones valued at around $200-300. But in the end, very few people will see their apartment and everyone around them will see their motorbike and phone.

In the end, I'm showing off to no one and they are showing off to everyone. But with white skin, I don't need to show my wealth outwardly or differentiate myself--a situation Khmers do very much have to deal with. Still, I get my daily dose/reminder of white privilege every time I walk by their door on my way downstairs.

On a slightly more sinister note...

2009-05-30T13:36:00.004+07:00

Phnom Penh--Cambodia. I made the rather entrepreneurial investment of buying a motorbike in the province of Bantey Meanchey while visiting a good friend there. Since motorbikes arrive by land via Thailand and there is considerable sale competition, the price that bikes fetch in border towns is necessarily cheaper. The general idea is to shave off $90 from the price while only adding $10 to have your bike follow you on a truck with some sacks of rice to Phnom Penh the next day. In the end, I was (and still am) the proud owner of a 2008 Honda Wave 100cc - red and black.

Now, our family has quite a history of buying junkers in order to avoid having to worry about theft. Since a lot of my ability to deal with traders, officials, and brokers depends on making a good "show", I needed a bike that would attract some attention--so the old family way was not going to work. But, as the title of this entry suggests, having a junker does help you avoid theft.

On the evening in question, I pulled up to my local internet shop and parked my bike next to a load of other bikes, some even more expensive than mine. None of them had any extra security employed additional to the normal steering lock. I locked my handlebars like the rest and sat in a booth where my bike my visible. Over the next hour or so, I kept glancing out at the bike to make sure she was still there and never saw anything out of the order. When I emerged, I saw a little boy running down the street but just thought he was as delivery boy. But when I sat down on my bike, I noticed my key would not go into the ignition. I sat perplexed for a moment until I realized what had happened. A thief had jammed a Vietnamese-designed t-shaped key into the ignition and tried to use brute force to turn the ignition. He was actually successful--my handlebar was no longer locked. After playing around with the ignition I actually turned it without having to insert my key. The thief was clearly a few minutes away from making off with my bike.

I drove off with no key in the ignition after having arranged to secure my bike indoors for the night. As I pulled up to a stoplight, I noticed some fellow motorists looking at my bike with its lack of key in the ignition. You can imagine the cognitive dissonance: a foreigner stole a motorbike?!

The next morning, I met with a friend to get my lock replaced and install some new security features. When the ignition came out at the locksmith (also a Vietnamese boy, incidentally), we discovered the the thief had broken all but one of the pins with his little tool. We replaced the whole thing for $1.50, parts and labor. Next, we went to one of the motorbike centers in Phnom Penh-- O'Russey Market. For $15, I outfitted her with a U-lock on the front and bought an extra chain lock for the back. The salesman proudly gave me a hacksaw to exhibit that the lock could not be sawed through easily. After one attempt, I was convinced as well.

I am determined now not to have my secured bike stolen, but I've heard some stories of muggers cordoning off roads in order to rob motorbikes from people, grand-theft-auto style. Will definitely take the lit roads at night.

On a secondary note about security in general: I admit that my view of Cambodia is a bit tarnished now that I actually own valuable things and have an apartment. I think I spend at least 20 minutes every day extra on securing my home and motorbike, even though I have bars on all the doors and windows and live on the third floor with no easily accessible climbing route. In order to avoid being a victim, I have to think like a thief. How would I rob my own house? How can I secure things so that doesn't happen? At this point, my valuables are behind two locked doors, but a thief could try to fish things through the bars in the bedroom windows. To that effect, I have a lockbox but am still trying to figure out a way to secure my laptops which are the perfect size to go through the bars.

But after all that creativity in securing my things--I still hear stories about superhero thieves who manage to steal heavy motorbikes from 4-floor stairwells and out of 60-foot drops--all after disabling security systems. How can I compete with that?

I Dream of Nokias and Camrys

2009-05-28T19:28:00.002+07:00

Chances are, if you're a Cambodian in Phnom Penh, you probably own at least one of the following: a Honda Dream motorbike, a Toyota Camry, or a Nokia cell phone. One of the consequences of the lack of standards mixing with poor market information diffusion in a very communitarian society, is that everyone tends to buy all of the same things.

In this way, a Honda Dream is a "strong" moto, though it is mostly style and popularity driving it (and the price). The Toyota Camry is supposedly the perfect balance between American sedan style and durability, the quintessential middle class car. The elites boys all drive Lexus SUVs or CRVs with the name emblazoned loudly on the side. And a Nokia is a well built phone that will somehow magically save you cell phone time--not sure how that one works.

So the market is always booming for these guys and they continue to maintain market share even decades later.

3 days down, 209 to go in Cambodia

2009-05-18T20:29:00.006+07:00

I can't explain why, but I was in a hurry to "settle down" this time around in Cambodia. My last three visits have seen me "floating" from place to place, not having any main base of operations and treating Cambodia like a pit-stop. This time, perhaps the knowledge that I would be spending a long time here propelled me to grind out a living right away.

My good friend Sary picked me up from the airport... in a car. Now to understand the amazement of this, consider that I have spend months working and living with Sary but have never been in a car with him. In fact, I can count the number of times I've been in a car at all in Cambodia. Needless to say, it was a luxurious experience. We immediately squared me away with a $15/night room at a guest house called Town View, and then exchanged the car for a motorbike... a far more ubiquitious means of transportation in Cambodia. After a rip-roaring breakfast of Gkaw-Ko (beef-back stew), we started apartment hunting.

Nothing more complicated than driving up and down roads in residential areas looking up for "To Let" signs. In this way, we saw ten apartments in two hours. We went from the tourist district to a peripheral market district called Depot Market. Naturally, the last place we looked at was the big winner. A one-bedroom on the third floor of a little row house. My landlord is the owner of a little shop at the ground level, and nearby are all the amenities I might need. Being 15 minutes from most of the development organizations is not ideal, but I'm hoping my proximity to my cooperation partner CEDAC and more of the wet markets will more than make up for it. It's no riverfront property, that's for sure, but it's authentic, quaint, and practical, not to mention dirt-cheap.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the aggravating exercise of trying to buy furnishings. Since that day, I've had much more luck and a few choice items have fallen into my lap by such gems as a French mother of four, a 9-month-any-minute pregnant mattress saleswoman, a Francophone Singaporean, and a retro butch-cut office supply shopkeeper. Sary and then Piseth (my former translator) have been helping me immensely--to the extent that I haven't needed a motorbike taxi ride till the evening of my third day. And more friends are offering their help all the time.

It dawned on me today that I actually have no non-Cambodian friends left here. Oh sure, I know a few former professors and a couple of old development aid career cats, but my only real consistent friends are Khmer. And let's hope it stays that way, for language-learning's sake!

So, all in all, coming into the third night, I am looking at a partially furnished apartment; my neighbors are old drinking buddies from 2004/2007; a few meetings are in the works for my research; and I'm still struggling with the heat. A lot to look forward to.

Sing!... apore

2009-05-18T20:03:00.002+07:00

The West, with a twist. A good friend once told me after returning from a visit in Japan that he had a hard time "seeing" prosperity there because he associated all things foreign with underdevelopment. Japan's "differentness" immediately invoked connotations of poverty and sweaty backs, even though he was looking at one of the most developed countries in the world.

Well, I haven't been to Japan but I can relate, to a degree, after having visited Singapore. Remembering that my fascination with Asia began, and will probably end, with Cambodia. So it is natural that my experience of Asia uses Cambodia as a benchmark. Of course, I am smart enough to consciously not be victim to my distorted benchmark, but I must admit that the few times I encountered an annoying tout, a pushcart peddling fried 'whatever', or a wet market in Singapore, I sighed and looked on as if I was seeing the "real" Asia hidden among all the skyscrapers imported from the West.

That all being said, I enjoyed Singapore immensely... for what it was. And what was it? A booming metropolis, carefully engineered living, and enough local flavor to keep my Asian fetish supplied. Its government-sponsored sense of order even appeased my latent need for Ordnung inspired by my last tenure in Germany. Above all, I was extremely pleased with the intense mobility afforded by the Singaporean government. The mass transit system is fast and immaculate, not to mention comprehensive. People have commented that Singapore is a 24-hour kind of place: well, that's true because it doesn't take forever to get somewhere and do something. In order to see Bangkok as comprehensively as I saw Singapore in one day, it would probably take one week, and a lot more heat exhaustion.

Efficiency is, of course, just one virtue. Being able to "see" a bird park, the commercial district, the harbor district, the financial district, Chinatown and even the night-life areas in one day might also indicate that I didn't really do a thorough job. And that's partly true. But it beats the hell out of rotting in Bangkok traffic and breathing led smoke from the loud Tuktuk just ahead.

More specifically, I very much enjoyed the Singapore skyline, it's cute English riverside, and its something-for-everyone shopping district (Orchard). But most of all, I enjoyed it's harbor. After a dubious ride through construction sites to the Marina Barrage, I found an architectural wonder that was Singapore's reservoir pump house. Green-roof technology and sustainability focus gone wild. Beautiful views of the harbor ships, the entire skyline, and a cool wind blowing on you all the time. The largest solar array in Singapore? Check. Free and fun exhibits? Check. Kite flying? Check. Walks on the reservoir dam? Check. (Protection from a storm? Check.) Fireworks and free water? Check. And given that the Marina was my last stop after a long day, let's give it a few more "Checks".

Market Ironies in Cambodia

2009-05-18T19:34:00.005+07:00

Consider this irony: a country like Cambodia produces clothing shoes, bedding, and wood furniture for many high-end retail companies abroad, but one looks for good shoes, bedding, or wood furniture in Cambodia, it will become apparent that these homemade goods are the exception and, unfortunately, the cheap Chinese or Vietnamese knock offs are the rule.

In some sectors in Cambodia, there's a tragic form of globalization at work in Cambodia, in which predatory companies exploit both labor and consumers in Cambodia at the same time. The only justice is when entrepreneurial workers sneak out nice Gap clothes, Nike sneakers and Levis jeans. The tragedy is that knock-offs are so ubiquitous that no one will believe a poor girl that her Levis are the real thing. In all likelihood, even she will be exploited by someone one level down in domestic the private sector.

In many cases, I have been that consumer being exploited here. Having arrived in Cambodia a few days ago (and miraculously, having found an amazing apartment within four hours), it has been just this ironic tragedy that has followed me around as I attempted (and am still attempting) to furnish my apartment. Consider the following situation: a white, sweaty, and sunburned male trying to buy towels and a rice cooker. Snap analysis: a tourist. Second thought: oops, probably an expat trying to set up a home. Further analysis: I bargain in Khmer and I know many of the prices, so I am not a Freshman in Cambodia. Why, then, should 75% of the shopkeepers try to pull the 1000% markup on me and think they can get away with it? Do they only do the snap analysis... do they ignore telltale signs of experience? Frankly, I don't know but the consistency of this experience has me dazzled, and a bit frustrated. On principle, I won't buy things for the retail European price, so if the shopkeeper rejected any good offers (remember, I've lived in Israel and they bargain hard), I won't buy, even if I'm desperate. I toweled myself off with a pair of pants one night after a run-in with three annoying towel salespeople in a row. The next day in the market, I immediately get a straight up offer that's reasonable and I don't even have to bargain. What gives?!

And it's not just retail. I spent four hours looking for apartments of roughly the same specs, with only location being different in some cases. Adjusting for quality a bit, I bargained hard down to offers of $400, $300, $250 a month. In the end, I found a place for $80. Being unfurnished, it's going to cost me roughly $600 to set everything up, which could crudely be seen as a rent increase to $130/month. Consider alternatively, that these furnishings I am purchasing are an investment, and we're talking maybe $100/month. So, if a friend comes to Cambodia looking asking about a reasonable price on a one-bedroom, 1200 square-foot apartment in Phnom Penh, I am going to say not more than $400 and not less than $80. Good luck, friend. And thanks for all the help clarifying the market, Cambodia.

That being said, a shoe shine is 25 cents in Cambodia. No bargains necessary. Hallelujah.

The Razor's Edge

2006-07-01T21:47:00.000+07:00

There is always an alternative route for the accomplishment of social goals. It appears that, at the very least, there are two schools of thought underpinning this issue.

One is the conventional school, which dictates that is acceptable to follow the socially acceptable path to success and respect (as a sacrifice) and then use one's ensuing monetary and institutional powers to make good. This generally requires investing time in education and career building and then choosing a threshold at which one decides to devote more time to social work than to career management. The prime examples of this, at the very moment, are Bill Gates and Warren Buffet, the two richest men in the world. Gates said he was stepping down from major work at Microsoft to more actively manage his foundation, and a few days later, Warren Buffet declared that he was giving most of his money (near $40 billion) to Bill Gates' foundation. These two men succeeded in traditional business roles in society and now are able to contribute enormous resources (money and time) to social work. Another other classic example that comes to mind is the founder of the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies, Dr. Alon Tal. He sacrificed years of his life in order to get a law degree and PhD, but with his skills was able to found important organizations and contribute greatly to the environmental discourse in Israel. Another example I personally like to mention for this school of social work is Wangari Maathai, the Carnegie Mellon-trained PhD from Kenya who, after significant schooling and Westernization, established a reafforestation program in Kenya that won her the Nobel Peace Prize. Other examples might be people like political analyst Noam Chomsky and rock star Bono of U2.

The other approach is the grassroots school, which demands far less preparatory investment and calls for more direct intervention on behalf of social goals. One can thus build the skills most appropriate for dealing with vulnerable populations and develop respect from the ground up. Many examples of such an approach come to mind. Everyone is probably by now familiar with Erin Brockovich, the housemother-turned-law assistant, whose people skills allowed her and the law firm she worked for, to receive what was at the time the largest sum from an environmental case in American history. Another example is Julia Butterfly Hill, an activist tree sitter who became famous after spending more than three months in a redwood tree in California and now does extraordinary foundation work. Lois Gibbs, the now-famous homeowner association president of Love Canal in New York State, started as a concerned communtiy member and now runs major advocacy work out of Washington, D.C. Ralph Nader, the famous politician of the United States, also got his start with seatbelt safety law and is now a major presence. People like my past boss, Mike Ewall, who has only a college degree, choose this approach by choice and are often, on a case-by-case scale, very effective advocates.

Clearly this dichotomy is made to be broken and there are abundant examples of people who have met success with a hybrid approach. This fact, however, does not detract from the usefulness of studying the two ends (or at least 2 major points) in the social work spectrum. My own position is that these two approaches have their roles and because of some fundamental drawbacks in each, must be critiqued by people trying to guide their life toward social work. One of the pitfalls of the conventional school, and there are many, is that activist spirit and creativity is often dumbed down in the process of institutionalization. Working up to a position at the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) is a worthy goal, but one often finds one's standards compromised by a bureaucratic system, aspirations for promotions, family planning, and other systemic issues relating to the work. Alternatively, the "edge" of an activist, the fighting spirit, could be softened to nothing over the 8-10-year process of getting a PhD necessary for a certain key position. Hobnobbing at fancy parties in attempt to raise foundation money to continue a program is often the fate of people in the conventional school. However, the potential for change in this school is, on average, probably larger because such people can end up with decision-making powers and institute major top-down changes.

The grassroots approach, more than anything else, is simply a gamble on narrow or broad success. A so-called victory in activist terms, such as shutting down a particularly polluting landfill, is cause for a local celebration... but with more omnipotent powers, we might see that such garbage as was diverted from this community ended up in another community, perhaps in the more vulnerable Third World. Such cases are not complete losses, because they set precedents and spook industrial advocates and can galvinize change. But very often, the effects are local and the global effects actually marginal. However, every so often one of these grassroots cases becomes Love Canal, Wackersdorf (Germany, nuclear waste), or Hinckley (of Erin Brockovich fame). In the context of sustainable development, it is questionable how much the activist approach has been effective on issues outside of humanitarian aid [I admit that, on this point, I have much more to learn].

So why am I quickly writing about this? Because a Rabbi friend of mine suggested a book called The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham, which traces the story of guy named Larry through his journey of intellectual and spiritual growth. The book is not precisely about how to most efficiently invest one's life in social work, but draws a beautiful picture of a bright young individual struggling to discover his calling and eventually choosing the non-conventional approach. Larry is in contrast to a deeply conventional individual named Elliott, who uses his prestige and financial resources to carry out his will. For anyone in turmoil about their own decision about choosing a life along conventional lines or grassroots lines, this book may offer some deep insight.

I leave you with a question -- in comparing the effectiveness of these two approaches, is it fair to simply add up one's social goods at the end of life and compare which approach produced more social good per lifespan? Or is there something inherently more valuable about either of the two approaches?

The Scorption and the Turtle

2005-11-22T18:57:00.000+07:00

Dear Friends,

Let me share with you a brief story that is quite famous here in Israel. I think it speaks for itself.

The Scorpion and the Turtle

The Scorpion came to the riverbank and wanted to cross but could not swim it himself. He saw a turtle swimming in the river and called to the turtle to carry him across on his back. The Turtle looked up at the Scorpion and said: “Why would I take you on my back across the river? At the first chance, you will sting me and I will die.” The Scorpion said to the Turtle: “Silly Turtle, why would I sting you? If I sting you while we are crossing the river, you would die and I would drown.” The Turtle saw the logic in the Scorpion’s argument and agreed to carry the Scorpion across the river. The Scorpion climbed on the back of the Turtle and as the Turtle reached the halfway point of river, the Scorpion stung the Turtle. As the Turtle was dying and sinking into the river he gasped: “Why did you sting me, for now we will both die?” The Scorpion responded: “Yes, that is true, but you forget, this is the Middle East.”

Even "THEY" feel it sometimes...

2005-11-10T05:40:00.000+07:00

Imagine a mixed group of Americans, Israelis, and Jordanians sitting on a rooftop one breezy evening in Israel, chatting and planning about environmental protection and social dialogue between their various peoples. A group of five Palestinian students are discreetly missing, having not been able to make it over the border for the past 1.5 weeks. Imagine further that a Jordanian cell phone rings once, cancelled, rings again, cancelled, and on the third time, the Jordanian picks up ready to scold his friend for interrupting him. Two minutes later he returns, ashen-faced, and informs the group that multiple bombs have torn through various hotels in the capital of Jordan, Amman.

Almost as if choreographed, the other Jordanians stand up quietly amidst a shocked silence and droop over to the nearest vacant corner, madly punching numbers into their phones. The Israelis look on with a mixture of surprise, solemnitude, and a lot of understanding. They, too, have been in that position with a cell phone and a piece of bad news--probably more times than they would like to recount. As a volley of Arabic erupts from the corners of the roof, crescendoing as each one reaches a family member in Amman, the Israelis look at each other and glumly agree, "It's the same all over." And on this, they are right. Anyone put in the position of "victim" can understand why the feelings and responses are almost universal, cross-cultural.

The group disburses as the Arabs finish their calls and report a ambivalent "everyone's ok." Five minutes later, CNN bursts onto the scene, sounding like they were the first ones their. The Jordanians look on in amusement. "The one thing Arabs never do, they never let the media come inside," one of the Jordanians points out. Surely enough, after twenty minutes, CNN camerapersons are still taping the stark-faced soldiers preventing entry into the Hyatt, Radisson, and Days Inn. Soon, beautiful maps of the region start appearing, showing clearly where Amman lies in relation to Jerusalem, Beirut, and Iraq. An info blip appears declaring that King Abdullah of Jordan has condemned the bombers. One Jordanian girl turns from the TV and quietly says, "At least all those silly Americans will know where Jordan is now, and who King Abdullah is. Michael Jordan has made explaining my country very hard."

Questions: Okay so they targeted American outposts in Jordan, but King Abdullah and none of the Jordanians here seemed at all relieved by this fact. Killing was killing, and it happened on their land. How will this type of terrorism fare in the future?

Authority, Familiarity, and Integrity

2005-10-28T16:55:00.000+07:00

Water fluoridation... one of my favorite subjects to talk about. Partially, this is because the concept is a crystalized example of a much deeper, more sinister problem. That problem, in my mind, is a wide-spread combination of a.) an egoistic inability to complete period internal evaluations, b.) casual acceptance of authority, c.) quick dismissal of critics, and d.) a series of logical fallacies made by many that results in their continued acceptance of a status quo (e.g. prejudicial language, popularity of position, unrepresentative sample, fallacy of exclusion, begging the question).

The reason I bring this up is that I was, very surprisingly and dissapointingly, unable to have a decent conversation about this issue with a group of supposedly educated, intellectually able, aware Fulbright Fellows. According to my a through d rubric outlined above, this is how the conversation went:

Fluoride is a household word, in so many products, was around at home as far back as I can remember.. why would I second guess it now?
The American Dental Association, the Centers for Disease Control, my dentist, and my mother tell me fluoride is good.
Wasn't fluoride some communist conspiracy in that movie "Dr. Strangelove" - why would the government lie to me?
Logical fallacies:

Prejudicial language: fluoride helps children, how evil you are to oppose it
Popularity: fluoride is everywhere, "everyone" supports it
Unrepresentative sample: all medical professionals support it
Fallacy of Exclusion: "hundreds" of reports show that fluoride is good (usually non-specific)
Begging the question: our teeth are made of fluorine compounds, fluoridation of any type is therefore beneficial

The point of whether fluoride is good or not lost it's relevance during the heat of this conversation, and my issue began to be the poor quality of the debate. Pointing out peoples' logical fallacies is a dangerous situation, pointing out their egoism is recipe for a fight, and trying to shake off the "Dr. Strangelove"-you-lost-your-credibility effect is very hard. The end effect here is that issues such as fluoridation simply can't compete on the "debate table" erected over dinner. And then this girl said something along the lines of, "Do you even know who you're talking to? I'm a incoming medical school student." At that point, I kind of lost my head, because 1.) She was actually in the application phase, which is NO guarantee of admission, even for a Fulbrighter, 2.) Undergraduate preparation for medical school doesn't include barely any of the issue we were discussing, and 3.) Stating that one has authority, a title, credibility before one has them is a big no-no.

So I'm not making any friends fast, but I also don't exactly need friends around me who can't deal with a little non-mainstream opinion. My lesson: diplomacy skills and charisma are something I'll need to develop... soon.

Kibbutz Life

2005-10-28T16:20:00.000+07:00

Kibbutz Ketura, District of Hevel Eilot, Israel --

One can hardly imagine the "transition" to a socialist community, such a kibbutz. Kibbutzim are essentially islands of communism within the otherwise fiercely capitalist (private propery-driven) country of Israel. Everyone is "paid" the same, shares the communal internet, receives more-or-less equal housing plots, eats together, does their laundry together, makes decisions together, organize social events for themselves, and even offers their children up for a more communal style of childcare. On the other hand, certain details escape the communist realm: people buy their own shampoo, soap, ice cream, beer, and pay out for their own vacations and traveling during the holidays. In addition, certain communal aspects of kibbutz life seem to "slip" each year: two years ago, temporary residents could freely enter the communal refrigerator and take what they needed; today, a representative kibbutznik has to enter on their behalf. And these days, the kibbutz unofficially encourages people to have around 4-5 children--this number being the average amount needed to maintain the member population around the kibbutz.

Living as a student in such a space has its benefits, as well as a few drawbacks. While I don't have to milk cows, pick fruit, or cut cucumbers, I get all of the friendly benefits of living in such a friendly environment. I'm also not obliged to contribute to the local concensus system and therefore I don't share the guilt, nor the pride, when things go wrong or right around the kibbutz. As a temporary resident, it's probably better that way: do I really understand their politics and long-term outlook anyway? In a way, however, the kibbutz needs me as much as, for the sake of my education, I need them. This is because the Arava Institute is, unofficially, their biggest money-maker. And me, as a student paying full tuition (well, we can thank the U.S. Dept of State for that $), I am making that true.

This issue of "cultural education" as a byproduct of my graduate school program here on the kibbutz has helped me clarify why, for some unknown reason, I struck U.S. schools off my list for graduate school. In the field of Development Studies, or the study of wacky-shit-going-on-in-the-Third-World, it simply doesn't make sense to be on some plush U.S. university campus studying--totally removed from any hint of what is going on "over there." Sure, Britain/Oxford wouldn't be a step up, but, unlike the U.S., it would at the very least be culturally different than what I've grown up with. It might not be like studying Development in the bush in Kazakhstan, but their ideals and their lifestyles will challenge my own and at least put the idea into perspective. I agree, however, that a more ideal position would be to study in the Third World. But while that has big bonuses on the "cultural education" component, it has major losses in other areas, such as quality of education, rigor of the work, prestige, and for getting the full financial benefit that my scholarship provides.

The Arava Institute fulfils that ideal for this year, because it easily fulfils the "cultural education" aspect of my studies, as well as having a top quality educational system.

Some questions: Chemists, Physicists, Mathematicians and other hard scientists could easily study anywhere there are quality programs... but other fields have a cultural component to be considered: political science, international anything (econ, law, politics, etc.), doctors (Western Medicine is only one of many options), linguists, historians, etc. Are student fully considering this aspect of their education? What might be preventing them from doing so (language, family, religion, finances, ...)?

A side of the Israel-Palestine conflict never seen...

2005-09-27T03:20:00.000+07:00

Old City, Jerusalem --

I wonder if the political architects of the Berlin Wall studied the Old City in Jerusalem to discover exactly how to separate a small piece of land into multiple "countries." To give you an idea, West Berlin was really an "island" inside of an expanse controlled by the former Soviet Union. In order for this island to maintain it's political sovereignty, it was to be treated like a separate country -- hence the Wall serving as a hard border. I can just imagine the folks in Rhode Island having a tough time envisioning being locked into their state and being harassed at the borders with their neighboring states.

The Old City in Jerusalem is in similar form. Although the Armenian, Christian, Jewish, and Arab quarters are not separated by any border, the so-called "Temple Mount" is. The Temple Mount is really the former site of the two Jewish temples which were destroyed (the second, built by Herod, was visited by Jesus shortly before it was destroyed). When Muslims controlled Palestine last, they slapped up the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa mosque on the site of the Second Temple. These are now the 3^rd and 4^th holiest sites in Islam and assured that the space be converted to exclusive Muslim use. To give you an idea, the expanse of the Temple Mount is about the size of 4 football fields, and is probably a 3^rd the size of the entire Old City. If you add the area of the Arab Quarter to the area of the Temple Mount together, we can safely conclude that the Arabs control around ¹/₂ or more of the old city (see here: Old City map). Jews praying at the Western Wall are literally praying at the foot of the Muslim-controlled Temple Mount.

These days, to reach the Temple Mount means lining up at some window of time during the day and passing through a type of "border control," perhaps similar to what the Berlin Wallers experienced. Once on the Temple Mount, you realize just how big and at a high elevation the area is. Beautiful wide views of the Mount of Olives (Juda betrays Jesus here) and French Hill, and wide quiet boulevards. At every turn, I had semi-uniformed guards telling me not to enter here or not to enter there. FYI, the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa mosque are off limits to whities, although an 8-year-old kid who looked Lebanese (fairly pale Arabic skin tone) wearing jean shorts and a WWF Wrestling t-shirt got in to the Dome no problem). The question of "who" exactly controls the land is tricky. No doubt the Palestinian Authority controls the Arab Quarter, but who should control the Temple Mount? Jordan did at one time, and the Royal Family was very pleased with their holding. The Palestinians more or less control the area now, although they receive significant help from the international Islamic community for upkeep. Even then, some issues have cropped up. A change the Palestinians made in the Old City water system almost caused the southeast corner of the Temple Mount (and the Old City castle walls) to topple, but they caught the mistake in time.

After the 6-day War, had the Jews acted as folks did 1,000 years ago, they probably would have razed the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa and started rebuilding the Temple. Probably due to a relatively new phenomenon called "international pressure," the Jews not only left the area alone, but them and the Christians + Armenians settled for only a third of the Old City. When it comes to the entire chunk of Land that is Israel + West Bank, it's tricky to talk about who has "religious right" to be where... but when it comes to the Old City, I think it's fair to say that the "religious right" to the land rule be applied -- it is, after all, a super-extra religious site. I'm only bitter about this because, while the Christian/Armenian/Jewish (CAJ) religious area is squashed into a small piece of the Old City, the Arab Quarter is made up of stretches of homogeneous alleyways, in which the stores repeat themselves every 100 meters. I only ask that the Arabs make more interesting use of possibly the most lusted after real estate on the planet.

Some questions: What kind of rules can be applied to micro-states, such as the Old City, Liechtenstein, old West Berlin, Tibet, the Panama Canal, Gibraltar, etc? How should religion play a role in the Old City (hint: the only remaining issue is what to do given the Jewish importance of the Temple Mount?)

Flea Market Behavior

2005-09-24T22:28:00.000+07:00

So you're walking down a narrow alley in the Arab Quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem and you spy a splendid pair of shoes displayed in a messy shop. You hesitate for a moment near the entrance, not sure whether to invest time in inspecting and purchasing, or to simply move on. Someone else noticed your hesitation right away--namely, the shopkeeper, who is eagerly escorting you into his shop with hyper remarks about giving you a "good price." You realize it's too late, so you pick up the shoes and take a look.

You squint down at the shoes, trying to look like a professional. Hmm...some total no-name brand called SpikoPerformanz, squeaky plastic bottoms, cheap suede, and probably one too many places are glued where they should have been stitched. Your thoughts are broken by the shopkeeper, who yet unsure of which of his languages to employ, tells you in Hebrew that the shoes are an excellent choice. "Which size, I find for you!" he says walking towards the back where a pile of anonymous shoeboxes lie. You tell him the price in Hebrew, after which he begins wading through his merchandise. Coming up empty handed, he sheepishly says, "I go to find this size." Given an extra moment to look at the shoes, you think to yourself, not bad looking, they would probably last me a year or two. Would be worth it if I could get them for a good price. The shopkeeper returns with your shoes and a shady-looking friend. You try on the shoes, still trying to act like you're just "mildly" interested. After a few practice steps, you determine they are decent shoes and start to bargain. Hmm, I could probably get these for $10 at K-Mart, so I'll start with $7 and see how it goes.

"How much?" you ask the shopekeeper, to which he replies, "$35." You shoot him a glance that says, how dare you, and tell him how cheap the shoes are before telling him you'll give him $5. In a flurry of drama, he puts the shoes back in the box and informs you that is not fair. You shrug your shoulders and begin walking out, before which he yells, "Okay! $20." You turn around just long enough to clarify that his offer is still a joke. Before you turn the corner, he says, "Okay for you friend, I will do a special price. $15." You turn around and nonchalontly offer $7. He knows the party is over, and after three back-and-forths, you settle for $10.

As an omniscient narrator, I can tell you that the shopkeeper bought the shoes for $3 and would have sold them for $7 to someone who spoke his language and bargained hard. You walked away thinking you saved $25, he walked away knowing he made $3 and, frankly, had a pleasant time doing it. Everybody wins.

Imagine you went into the same shop the very next day and pulled out $10 and asked for a pair of shoes. This time, the shopkeeper sniffs the air, and informs you of some nonexistent faux pas. You try and explain to him you bought these shoes (the ones you are wearing) for $10 and would simply like another pair. "I know the price, let's just skip the drama, okay?" you say. He says no and offers you $15 before you finally turn the corner.

As an omniscient narrator, I can tell you I fail to understand this situation. Some theories are: his ego was not boosted enough by a simple one-price sale; his friends made fun of him for not being able to exact more money the last time and feels dishonored; he sold a pair of those shoes for $15 to another American-Israeli (or another AmI bought a pair from another vendor on the same street); or (least likely) the price of shoes went up 50%.

Some questions are: is there a market price in a flea-market/haggle environment? Does the shopkeeper derive enjoyment/ego boost from using his superior haggling skills? Are tourists quasi-required to pay out more money for items? Should the shopkeeper feel good if he rips people off (imagine a $35 sale) and gloat? Is all this just business? Why do some people feel reticent to haggle?

How does this Arab environment compare to flea markets in other places? Europe, USA, Asia, Latin America?

Rumblings from a strange feline world

2005-09-04T23:28:00.000+07:00

Srigim Lion, Israel--

I was shaken out of my comfortable spot in the hammock this delightfully "warm" afternoon by the most strange of cat sounds I have ever encountered. Upon inspection, I found a mother who had just given birth, attacking her newborn while herself bleeding all over. Intellectually, I'm all for letting nature take it's course, but this was just offensive. Christ it was like taking the baby for birthing pains... a tough logical dilemma to be sure.

After fixing the poor things a little nest where they could suffer in peace, I noticed that the wee one's leg was badly injured. Three hours later, two more babies were born and the first baby, unhappily, was dead.

After that introduction, let me formally open this blog... my first. I left it simple to assure that I'm not intimidated by the work involved to actually post. Hopefully, I can slowly create a long term set of themes and topics to begin working up. And now, you're quite invited to post. No personal information required, of course.

Harry Potter delivers political commentary

2005-03-01T11:33:00.002+07:00

Rumors have been flying that J.K. Rowling was attempting to portray Hitler and Nazi Germany through her Harry Potter books. Frankly, I'm not seeing that. However, I am seeing curious correlations between the characters and current U.S. politicians and public figures. One of my co-workers and I have already started compiling a list. This may very well become a way of portraying to children (and adults for that matter) just how corruption has set into U.S. politics and why it is so difficult to deal with. If you're at all familiar with the books, you know how frustrating it is that Cornelius Fudge will not admit that Voldemort, when in fact some Death Eaters are embedded in the Ministry of Magic. Only Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix are willing to make a stand. In any case, read on, I think you'll see what I'm talking about.

Dumbledore – Nader
Crouch Sr. – Colin Powell
Nagini - Cheney
Hermione – ACLU
Draco – Limbaugh
Umbridge – Ashcroft, Bill Frist
Fudge – Daschle or Clinton
Tom Riddle - Bush
Voldemort – Multinational corps
Death Eaters – corporate lobbyists
Lucius Malfoy – Karl Rove
Snape – McCain, CEO of Interface
Sirius – Mandela, Peltiere
Wormtail – Enron (Ken Lay)
Arthur Weasley – Cynthia McKinney
Dementors – Riot police
Order of the Phoenix – Green Party
Azkaban – Guantanamo
Defense Against the Dark Arts – Environmentalism
Harry - ?
Ron - ?
Percy - ?

Send any more suggestions or corrections to me via e-mail.

Day in the life of... activist subject "A"

2005-02-02T11:32:00.000+07:00

Philadelphia, PA--This last month here at ActionPA and traveling has truly been a test of my ability to operate outside of a routine. Normally, I manage to establish some type of routine, however nominal, to regulate my necessary needs (things that go beyond brushing my teeth and showering). Here at the "office," there are very few cues beyond the rise and fall of the sun, that help me decide where in the day or the week I am. It's not atypical for me to work right through a weekend. While working on the weekend isn't out of the ordinary, not even knowing it's the weekend is. Fortunately, I've had quite a few events over the last month that have allowed me to break out of trance music-like stupor of work-play-plan.

A few weeks back, while at Lafayette for a weekend of Hillel, I realized that the cycle of learning, applying one's learning, and reaching one's limits in knowledge and expertise has made a full spin. I can credit Lafayette for preparing me for many things beyond Economics, German, and researching... but I honestly can say that I've been humbled by the people around me and the non-academic yet academic skills they have mastered. Geoff, who works behind me, self-taught himself like 5 code languages and is responsible for what seems like half the youth activist web-design on the internet. Now he's taking on the nuclear power industry by running the website of the Nuclear Resource Information Service (NIRS). Mike and Traci, my bosses have immeasurable skill in managing, directing, and processing huge amounts of activism-related communication. Their abilities to organize and synthesize an entire world of landfill battles, incinerator pollutants, permit violations, community groups, and the latest scientific news is mighty impressive, not to mention extremely valuable... and yet cannot, by nature, be taught in school.

This last weekend involved a mammoth trip to northern Vermont for the Climate Campaign conference. The drive was 8 hours, the last 5 of which I drove, fascinated by the technology on the hybrid Honda Civic I was driving, and trying to navigate the treacherous and windy roads of upstate New York and northern Vermont. I was happy when we finally pulled into Burlington and met up with a person I would elevate to hero status -- Mr. Michael Connett of Fluoride Alert, an incredibly comprehensive resource guide to help people battle water fluoridation and other fluoride-related issues. He runs the website by day, skis by night, and enjoys the beautiful liberalism of Burlington. I had a good beer with him and the rest of the crew (Mike and Geoff) before sliding over to the University of Vermont to meet up with the conference goers. When we arrived, it was at the tail end of the first evening, and a jazz band was playing while people danced and socialized. The set-up looked familiar -- tables filled with information on renewable energy, healthy living, activist apparel, campus initiatives, and the like. I met up with the Lafayette contingency, consisting of Mike Werner, Erica, Stephanie, Chris, Ben Doremus, Kaydence, and Jess Majewski... and we ended up crashing at a nice boy named Joe's place. Our bodies covered his entire downstairs floor. All I can remember from later that evening is explaining to people at least 3 times why fluoride in your water is a big sham.

The rest of the conference was filled with lots of beautiful solidarity events -- songs and keynote speeches --, workshops--some good some bad--, and lots of networking with other activists. I was especially inspired by a character named Jim Merkel, who gave up his job engineering and selling weapons systems to foreign governments to live off $5,000 a year and has worked his way down to a 3 acre ecological footprint (most Americans are stomping out 24 acres, second to the United Arab Emirates). The conference ended in an almost hysteric euphoria, because everyone became revved up about an epic upcoming biodiesel roadtrip to Detroit this summer, that will culminate in lots of Ford/GM/Chrysler demands.

On the way back, we stopped in to ex Representative Bob Maddox of Connecticut's house/farm. He has a house that utilizes 200 kwh per month (most houses do at least 700), complete with an Australian two-button toilet, solar panels, efficient lighting, low-flow shower heads, etc etc. And his farm is organic. Needless to say, the food and hospitality were great... especially after an exhausting conference. After getting my head bashed on by a trunk door and fish-tailing our way home through the newly fallen snow, we made it back to Philadelphia... where hopefully I can recoup and visit with Asher for a bit. Adios!