Day 20 - RV La Marguerite - 26th September 2014
RV La Marguerite - Day 20 - 26th September 2014 - Friday
After breakfast we take a two dollar tuk tuk ride with a man called Teung to the fun park, where we are to meet Colleen and her small band of volunteers, all women, mostly young, and all Australian, bar one English girl. One tall and very pretty girl has been here to this orphanage four times to assist with the kids, it's how she uses her holiday. I love Australians.
The fun park, named Dream Land, is a definite misnomer. The ticket lady wants $10 each demo us to go in, I refuse, Colleen says that's the weeks wages for the place, and gives us tickets the kind owner has donated. Colleen is wearing a purple hued dress and hat, and is organising 53 kids and the volunteers through the gates, with a minimum of fuss, and with humour, amongst the excitement and the chaos and the crying and laughing band she has brought. Try to imagine taking one disabled child out, and how organised you would need to be, then multiply that by 52. She has boxes of water, bags of nappies, and food. She only left us last night about 10 pm was up until 2.30 am making individual desserts for each child to bring here today, and she was up at 5.30 am. My respect for her goes through the roof.
What a place - it's ancient, and the entrance barricades are not wide enough for the wheelchairs, which have to be lifted over the barriers, much to the kids delight. No health and safety checks here. with potholed concrete sprouting weeds, devious little ledges and kerbs over which we lift the wheelchairs, it's a public liability heaven. The rides are at least 80 years old and in another country would be in a museum, and there is no music, no balloons, no candy floss, no hot dogs or fizzy drinks, and none of the rides are operating. When there are sufficient people in a ride, an operator comes along and cranks up an engine, which splutters into life, and jolts along unsteadily until it gets up a head of steam.
I have left describing the children till last, as my heart is overflowing, and when I left Colleen and the kids this morning, I burst into tears. There are 100 children in the orphanage, and they have a myriad of major problems. HIV, serious spine and muscle disease, blindness, deafness, and unable to speak, a large proportion are in wheelchairs, and all,of them need nappies. Som Kahn is a five year old who was not going to come today as he is 'very strong and very difficult to handle'. Colleen introduces us to him, and he extends his arms, she says 'Oh, he loves you!', and He wraps his arms around me in a bear hug. As Gerald is wheeling a boy to a fun ride, and Colleen has to dash off on a mission, and the few ancient, hardly mobile wheelchairs are all in use, she leaves him with me. Whether this was a conscious decision, I do not know. She has placed him beside me, and I look down at his little crumpled frame crawling on the ground. He cannot walk, he cannot speak, he is blind, his spine is twisted, he is epileptic, his limbs jerk sporadically, and he is HIV positive. He reaches me, and grasps my dress with both hands, I think it. Ah year, his grip is so strong. I look around, somewhat nervously, he is a fair size, and I have a back problem, but there is only he and me. His face turns upwards, one eye is tight shut, the other open just a slither and is milky white, and then he extends him arms up to me and a dam bursts in my chest, I bend and scoop him up in one easy movement, I slip his bent legs either side of my hips, as I did with Josh as a small bub, and he lays his head on my shoulder, his arms squeezing the breath out of me. He sure IS strong Colleen. With my bag bumping clumsily against us both, we set off to find the others, and there is my Beloved, looking so tall here amongst these small people, pushing a tiny boy in a falling apart wheelchair, and looking a little uncertain, as I am sure I am.
We met the little boy Gerald is pushing earlier, and he sat on my lap contentedly. These children are all well cared for, dressed neatly, well nourished, and happy despite their circumstances. God knows they must be better off with Colleen than in a village where the parents are working the rice paddies and fishing all day long. He is so excited by the spinning tea cup ride, but he cannot go on it, as he is epileptic and may have a seizure. His body looks like it's been broken and put back together again haphazardly, yet his face is alive with excitement and he shakes his head back and forth, laughing and stretching his whole body out in a paroxysm of pleasure, watching the others. We walk to the Big Wheel, and another volunteer takes him, he is gurgling with excitement. We have an empty wheelchair now, and I gratefully place Som into it, Gerald tenderly ties him in with a crude piece of cloth, he is wrestling and wriggling, and I take his hands in mine. He instantly takes the lead and holding my hands, pushes them together in a clap. I clap again, and again, something in his body language informs me he likes the rhythm, and I clap out a staccato of sounds. The moment I stop, he reaches my hands again, and repeats the clapping motion, so I do. He rolls his head around in what I think is pleasure, and does not want me to stop. I count out beats, he rolls, I clap in a tune, he rolls some more. And then I sing, songs I hasn't sung for a long, long time. Jan Pieder Wiet, MaMa's Kuike, and Aussie songs, Waltzing Matilda, Give me a home amongst the gum trees' and others dredged from Joshua's and my childhood. Gerald joins in, a little self consciously at first, but there is only us three sat here, and an amazing thing happens, Som's body relaxes, it sort of unfolds and untwists itself, and he is moving his head in time to the beat of the song. My throat constricts, this child is communicating with us, and for the first time we see him smile, so we keep singing. He reaches out to Gerald - Colleen says there are no men in their lives - and we place him in Gerald's lap. He glues himself to Gerald, reminding me of a baby koala, with his arms and legs wrapped so tightly around my Beloved, Gerald who gets uncomfortable with too much closeness is holding this child with such reverence and shining eyes. We spend the next hour or so just like that, singing in our off key voices, making up words of songs we have forgotten, loving that little soul.
We have to head back to the ship as it departs at noon, Colleen is dispensing dessert, giving kids drinks, hugging and smiling and issuing instructions to the volunteers, she is red faced, hot and tired - and she is one of the happiest looking people I have ever seen. She said last night that the crew member who accompanies her home in the tuk tuk (she is afraid at night on the streets) told her he thought she was a very good woman with a very good heart. No, she said, in her characteristic authentic way, 'I do this because being of service makes me happy, it's that simple'. And so it is, I know this in a profound level. Saying goodbye to her, I am bludgeoned by the immensity of the task she has taken on, and I resolve to support her in supporting these kids. I hug her close and cry into her hair that I think she is incredibly brave and loving soul, I am humbled and inspired by what she is doing, and wish her health and good fortune.
As we leave tears pour down my face. Our tuk tuk is waiting.
We stop for some Panadol Cold and Flu tablets for Gerald at a pharmacy, a dusty little counter in a garbage strewn street, it costs a dollar. He seems to also have conjunctivitis, and back on board we dose him up and wash his eyes with warm salty water, which Maria in the Saigon Restaurant gives us. Ever smiling, she and Darryl the maître d hover like mother hens over us getting lime and grated ginger for Gerald and ensuring not a single gluten based product passes my lips.
Gerald remains in board for,the afternoon excursion to Silk Island, where lines of brightly painted tuk tuks are lined up to take us to see the silk making process. The poms head out first, the blue and orange groups, it's interesting to see how we largely keep to our original groups and also to notice my internal dialogue about the English, who still occur as whingers, unwilling to embrace the food, the weather or the culture, despite visiting this exotic place. I am so proud to be Australian. Yesterday at The Killing Fields and S21, I observed our nation as deeply respectful, quiet, and dressed appropriately for such a place. There were other nationalities there in shorts, with exposed shoulders, talking loudly and being disrespectful. Last night, our Aussie group listened intently to Colleen talk about the orphanage, asking intelligent questions, acknowledging her, and already Albert and Allison of the 'chicken empire' have committed Rotary to supporting her, he is on the board in Australia, and I am there will be others.
We witness the entire process from silk worm egg to fledgling juvenile to adulthood, where the male and female engage in a bout of mating that lasts for twelve hours, and then the bloke dies. The guys chortle lewdly and Albert asks if they need volunteers. 'One time only, mate!' says someone, but Albert appears prepared to die a blissful death. Leaving today, I say I have to be back at five for a 'thing' (massage). They guffaw and ask where Gerald is, I cannot resist, and say 'He's lying naked, prostrate and erect on the bed!' More laughter, Geoff says 'In his dreams mate!' and a suggestion he might need some paddle pop sticks. I cannot let this comment pass, and say 'My husband definitely does not need paddle pop sticks!' and that puts an end to that conversation. I hop into the tuk tuk with Trish, Katherine and Allison, all large women who need considerable assistance to ascend the tuk tuk, which creaks and dips heavily to one side as they lower their rear ends towards the seat, and then drop with a wheeze of the springs the last twelve inches or so. I silently bless my Dad and every yoga teacher I have ever had for my flexible and agile body, which can do things many can't, and many of these women are younger than I.
We visit a school of children, although it is holidays, they are taking extra lessons. Try that at home. The classroom is nest and orderly, with paintings and 'What I want to be when I grow up' aspirations strung high. Our guide translates. They want to be teachers, tour guides - this beings a big laugh - and two, doctors. These kids are as smart as whips. They greet us and bow, and we are invited to sit with them, I hope the fragile benches hold out. They all are well fed, look clean and healthy and tidy, their hair glossy, and their uniforms are clean, with a mix of style. I sit with an absolutely beautiful,child, Innike, who wants to be a teacher and a tour guide, her books are spotless, each page is filled with stars and red ticks, as nest as a pin. Her arms are like thin twigs, her little back narrow, she is 11 years old, and has a long black pony tail, and the sweetest smile. She leans in to me, my heart somersaults. She lowers her eyes, her English is very good and she says 'Thank you Ma'am' with her hands in the Buddhist greeting for the elders, at her forehead. Her hands are a work of art, long and slender, graceful fingers and nails, already bending into that backward shape they use when dancing.
On the board are some highly complex maths equations, ie 215,683 x 54, my mind boggles, I'd have a hard time working that one out with a calculator. He calls for volunteers and hands shoot up all around the room, and one young boy confidently strides to the board, picks up a piece of chalk, and chanting something, perhaps the process, is multiple,using, adding and subtracting, and within a minute, draws a line under the correct result. There are gasps, the mathematicians amongst us have worked it out too. This boy will definitely be a doctor. A second boy does a different equation, we all clap. They proudly read stories from their readers at the front of the room, the girls shyly stand in a row, and sing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' in sweet high voices, with all the hand movements, and the boys shove and jostle and arrive in a disorderly array, and sing a rousing song in English, about hands and faces I have never heard before. The difference between the sexes is apparent everywhere.
I am so happy to have seen this today, there are children here begging educated in what appears to be a caring environment, the teacher has been here for thirty years and is clearly proud of and affectionate towards their charges. Colleen was telling us last night that there is a 'gap' here, many Cambodians are not nurturing, she nearly died from Dengue fever, and was forgotten by three key people who were supposedly caring for her. I wonder if this is a national trait, or if people have been so busy trying to survive the monstrous Pol Pot Regime and his Khmer Rouge, that the sweeter, gentler things in life have been jettisoned. Or maybe when the generations of mums and dads, grandmas and grandpas were all murdered, there was nobody to role model love and care?
I return in a tuk tuk with a couple from the blue group, (I have a spa treatment at 5 pm) who are decidedly non communicative, but the island is green and pretty, white Brahmin cattle everywhere, floodwaters high, and the friendliest of people, children standing dangerously in the middle,of the road shouting hello and waving.
At the ship, there are a row of four women selling silk scarves of every imaginable colour. They were US $25 back at the silk factory, and the are $10 and $12, and I make a show of not being interested, but one lady seduces me, a broad smiling face,and the whitest teeth. I get three scarves for $30, and then succumb to the charms of a second lady, who practically cries with gratitude as I hand her $10 for a hand made turquoise scarf. I hug her, and she whispers. 'Thank you ma'am, I have five children ...' and I feel like such a heel for even thinking of bargaining.
Gerald is still not well, but has rested. I have a very good manicure for about $14 and a mediocre Aloe Vera facial for about $30, the therapists name is Huong from Vietnam, and we establish she has two girls aged five and seven, cared for by her mum. Beyond that, everything I say is met with a 'yes', so conversation ceases. She takes a half a lime and rubs it over my nails, and when I ask why she does that she once more responds with 'yes'.
I choose asparagus wrapped in ham, a fish soup, and Cambodian tiger prawns for dinner, washed down with Italian wine, and we take a cheese plate back to the room, with some more wine. I re watch the movie The Lover from half way through when I fell asleep, waiting to see the house we visited in which the male star lived. It appears only briefly, when his father is lying on a hard bed smoking opium. But the film is certainly raunchy. The lead female is gorgeous, and they both have great bums, but she is distinctly selfish and tedious and I can't help feeling he made a great escape from her, although he professed to love her till the day he died.
Sleep, and a whole morning off tomorrow.