Through His Eyes: Tuol Sleng

Tuol Sleng, the S-21 prison, was previously a place of education before its horrendous transformation thirty years ago. In the streets of Phnom Penh, the only evidence that you have arrived at the infamous four-walled structure is the mundane plaque, no bigger than a notebook, at the entrance that reads “Tuol Sleng.” Through the entrance was an intensely eerie familiar layout of a schoolyard, but the realities of its use were drastically different.

The grounds no longer housed swing sets, school desks or chalkboards. Instead, barbed wire drooped over time-withered buildings. Only one small door cutout, used for dragging prisoners to and from interrogation, broke the sheet of daunting twisted wire. Swing sets were turned into gruesome means for interrogation, and the 360-degree survey of the grounds showed no remnants of an innocent schoolyard. The leftovers of the Khmer Rouge prison were individual rooms still possessing rusting torture equipment and rooms lined with detaining cells that strike fear with a simple glance.

The haunting appearance of its entirety and the willingness of Chum Mey, one of three still living survivors of Tuol Sleng, to be our guide was baffling. At first glance, he resembles any older Cambodian man seen on the street. His skin was wrinkled and darkened by age and the beating sun. His hands reminded me of crocodile skin: tough and weathered. His voice did not waiver and his smile epitomized wisdom and understanding. All these characteristics revealed age, but barely betrayed the hardships of being tortured physically and mentally for nearly two and a half months. The truth was hidden. That is until our eyes met.

His eyes resembled something entirely different. Through them I could see his life, his burdens, his highs and lows. The white of his eyes, like a crystal ball, had turned permanently glossy with an indescribable blue tint that invited you to ask questions. I could see the tears that have fallen for years. I could see the pain he felt and witnessed. I could see history.

Although challenging, Chum Mey willingly re-entered Tuol Sleng to teach tourists about the atrocities. Following him towards Building A, where his own and most other interrogations and torturing occurred, I stared in amazement as he reenacted being shackled. Each room of Building A was equipped with various torturing equipment, dulled and rusted from time and use, precariously lying on metal bed frames. Barbaric torture methods of breaking bones, ripping toenails, and electric shocks were all performed in these bare concrete rooms. Discolored tiles under my feet had me shuffling with unease. Simply being present was enough to make any stomach turn with discomfort.

The remaining buildings were used to detain those inmates that were not being tortured for false accusations of CIA or KGB affiliations, or other forms of disloyalty. With amazing ease, Chum walked into Building C and straight to cell 022, where he lived for 72 days. Several identical cells lined each wall. The dried mortar dripped over sandwiched bricks and the insufficient sunlight seeped only through the aged and cracked shudders. The spine-chillingly crude cells seemed to capture a fear that still lingered. The saddening fates of those prisoners were made all too real as Chum slowly lowered his eighty year old body into the shackled position he sat in for hours at a time, decades before.

After taking us through his life and experience while in Tuol Sleng, he posed for a picture in the courtyard. His last words pleaded for each of us to tell his story. To leave the story untold would not be an option. With Chum May’s request and a personal promise, I left Tuol Sleng with a pledge to share what my eyes saw and what the portals of his eyes revealed to me.

Pse Leu Market Visit

Pse Leu

The front of the Pse Leu market seemed to aesthetically please and ease the unknowing foreigner. Stalks of miniature bananas, perfectly ripened, hung from every small, cluttered market store. Contrasting the yellow and green bananas were neighboring assortments of baskets with cluttered colorfully unidentifiable spiked, rippled, or velvety fruits and vegetables. In almost any other country, such color and armored fruits would signify a dangerous ability to attack one’s stomach or life, but in Cambodia eager, confident hands swarmed the bursting baskets. Besides the unfamiliar names that accompanied each fruit and vegetable, the market’s appearance was comfortably similar to an American farmers market. This familiarity invited me further. Feeling confident from the surrounding spectrum of color and the welcoming smiles, I continued.

The road leading through Pse Leu market’s perimeter was a mud road that doubled as a walkway and a side road. Constantly I found myself weaving through the trash littered road while actively dodging motorbikes that weaved uncontrollably through shoppers. In addition to surviving the market’s Frogger game-like setting, I continuously hopped across each puddle of water that I considered potentially polluted. Nevertheless, a smile shone on my face as I anxiously ducked and dodged down the side road.

Eventually rounding the corner the sights got progressively more gruesome and the stench more potent. Cleavers shined in the daylight with each up and down motion that accurately cleaned numerous fish while leaving each head attached. Next to the woman, who skillfully and artfully dealt with each fish, was a bucket of panicked, freshly caught fish squirming to escape their companions’ fates. Passing the seafood, further down the newly muddied road, ripple surfaced cow stomachs (tripe) laid coiled in baskets. Above hung various sized cuts of chicken and beef while some rested flat similar to a buffet. The aroma of the unrefrigerated beef, chicken, and fish along with other faceless aromas wafting through the open market made me wary. With one gust of wind, my strong stomach nearly failed me. However, my feet eagerly continued towards the next set of stalls as if they had a mission unannounced to me. My sight and smell had no choice but to follow.

The stench was worsened by the presence of an open sewer system that was being fixed. On one instance, caught by surprise and slightly repulsed, I was forced to resist clasping my hands over my nose and mouth. I figured it was my saddened American-adapted sense of smell because I suffered while others seemed unbothered. Napping children slept under or around the meat and fish as if they were temporary teddy bears while other children ran around this tight maze like it was a playground. Each ran from one stall to the next, all in between incessant laughter and occasional yells of “HELLO” and a wave.

Finally I ducked under the roof to visit Pse Leu’s “secrets” hidden beyond the outer food market. I concluded the outdoor, unrefrigerated market was certainly a health inspector’s worst nightmare and hoped for drier goods on the inside. Soon I found myself quickly racing through one more food section where the stench was as thick as fog because of the roof enclosure. Once inside, the air was thicker than the humid, outside air and could only be broken apart by the humming of numerous fans in each stall. Only by walking further into the market could someone find some relief. At the heart of the market, the free flow of air was marked by a golden glow that lights the entire area. At first one might think the gold glow was some mirage left in the middle of chaotic shops. Maybe the earth’s core had finally erupted through some crack in Pse Leu. But, by approaching the center, the large amounts of glass cases selling gold jewelry bracelets, necklaces, and earnings meet the eye.

Beyond the glowing epicenter of the market, there were hundreds of stores as far as the eyes could see. Rows of bedazzled prom dresses, extravagant textiles, and clothes with humorous English sayings. European sized tight jeans were folded presenting their unique pockets with printed words of “Iphone,” “Lexus” and “Gucci.” Next were the awkwardly placed dentistry offices alongside the piles of rusted supplies for yard work. The items and descriptions were innumerable. Every corner had something. Someone could even buy a knockoff of an expensive designer bag while you glanced at the manikan feet wearing shoes next door. After spending an hour aimlessly and continuously lost, I had barely skimmed the surface.

The blinding sun and sweltering heat, was the only indication that I had maneuvered my way out of the market and onto the street. Pse Leu truly resembled a Khmer style Walmart. Each aisle carried a large selection of various necessities. There were no foreigners and the prices were fair. The lack of foreigners allowed for cultural insight. Each stand, with its unordinary sights and smells, and each heat-induced sleeper or lively passerby told a story. Pse Leu’s has the capacity to entertain locals for days straight, whether to buy clothes, sell farm products or woven baskets, shop for an engagement ring, or eat lunch. Escaping the tourist area of Old Market, I have realized that Pse Leu serves as a perfect medium for storytelling. The stories of local culture and the daily lives of individuals are told through each crammed aisle.

Journey for Lok Lak

I browse the menu and finally, grinning, I mutter two words to the eager waitress, “Lok Lak.” Soon two dishes are set on the orange tablecloth, further drawing the contrasting white plates of Khmer food to me. The dish looks simple in color and idea. On one plate I find the staple food of Cambodia: white rice. My familiarity with rice quickly makes me shift the spotlight to the staring component of Lok Lak- the beef accompanied by a special pepper and garlic sauce. Once adding the pepper, garlic and lime sauce, the beef dish is transformed. No longer do I picture Cambodians eating beef and rice and calling it magnificent. Instead I find myself impressed by this painfully simple dish because of its bite and zing of this easily recreated sauce. In fact, this decision was not miscalculated or by chance. Before I even took my first steps onto the mud sinking, humid ground of Cambodia, I knew I would be having a personal experience with Lok Lak. What I didn’t expect was for my experience to become a journey.

Besides my parent’s ever-serious talk about all the potential situations abroad, which led to one or two family bonding movie sessions of “Taken” to prepare, I was given two pieces of advice a few weeks earlier. This advice came from my lacrosse coach, Eric, who was a more than welcomed source of information. One, I must bargain for an amazing piece of artwork, and second, I MUST eat Lok Lak. Unknowingly, this simple advice to find Lok Lak became somewhat of a predetermined journey given to me- the chosen Lok Lak forager. Like many journeys, obstacles were sure to exist, but my foodie driven self was determined to find this taste bud rollercoaster that Eric ate three times in one day. Surely any meal worth consuming three times in one day must have promise for a nomination in the “best dish award” of the Food Oscars.

On my departure, the only description given to me for Lok Lak was “rice, beef, and a fried egg with a minced garlic and vinegar sauce.” Its simplicity made me assume a journey for Lok Lak would be similar to searching for French fries in America. But no, the history and authenticity of this dish was enough to track down. Not to mention the disappearing act of eggs within Lok Lak dishes in different restaurants despite the innumerable amount of eggs and chickens at each market and each corner. Evidence for this Houdini act continuously haunted me as I heard about these cherished versions of Lok Lak while my search only produced those without egg and occasionally without cucumbers and tomatoes. However, this difficulty in identifying the comparison between Lok Lak with eggs and those without, as well as those with rice and those with French fries for the homesick foreigner was a first glimpse into the equally ambiguous history and importance of the dish within Khmer cuisine.

The Lok Lak is an example of a traditional dish that has enjoyed the luxury of being claimed Khmer while the actual truth resembles a colonial and foreign constructed existence. This garlic and pepper stir-fried beef dish has been a staple of Khmer households and cuisine for the past fifty years, as well as a modern link between other obscure Cambodian cuisine and the foreigner’s palate. The Vietnamese origin and presumed colonial introduction to Cambodia testifies this mistaken identity of Lok Lak within the culture. My only dismay will be to account these findings to Eric, whose memory holds Lok Lak entirely different than the also present French baguette of Cambodia.

Whether Vietnamese or Cambodian, the Cambodian Lok Lak has made its history and authenticity a fluid construct based on tradition and belief of the locals’ and foreigners’ culinary minds. My search has been a treacherous one. Authentic versus Americanized; Egg versus no egg; and rice versus French fries. My foodie mind has suffered the long battle between right versus wrong of cultural accuracy. I came expecting a truly Cambodian meal, hopefully being cooked for me by a tiny wrinkle-skinned hunched over woman in modest clothing sitting on the dusty ground over a pot of unimaginable aromas. Instead, the old grandmother figure of my dreams may never show and the award for best dish may never reach her.

In my last search for a unique, Cambodian version of Lok Lak, I came upon a version that held hope for authenticity. If Lok Lak were to forever bless my memories, my only choice would be to reach the northern provinces of Cambodia where the coveted Lok Lak, having beef substituted by native deer (sach chlouk), is occasionally found. This illegally hunted deer is considered a delicacy for Lok Lak “pilgrims”- like myself- because of its desirable taste and secrecy of consumption. However, with research and personal experience, I began to realize an absolute, hands down and widely accepted authentic Lok Lak was nearly impossible to achieve. Then again, I do not feel discouraged by the start of this journey and its unwilling end because this journey has nonetheless consecrated Lok Lak into my memory of Cambodia and its cuisine. But then again, I’m not Pho sure.

Side Note: Best street food experience

The time must have been past midnight as we began our search for a tuk tuk ride home. Before leaving the Old Market, there was one necessary thing to purchase: a Banana milo pancake desert from one of the many stalls that cluster each street corner. Having read raving blogs about this Cambodian delight, Kristy led us toward a stall. None of us were really sure what a banana pancake meant to Cambodians, but we ordered four ($0.75 each) and anxiously watched. Similar to the metal serving platters of a cafeteria, the man pulled the cover off to reveal little dough balls on top of one another in perfect rows like an egg carton. With one in hand, he oiled the counter and flattened the dough similar to pizza crust. With fluid motions he flattened and enlarged the dough into a thin layer. After thinned, the crepe/pancake began to cook on the griddle. Sliced bananas were soon added, flattened and folded into the pancake. Once fully cooked, slightly brown, a spatula quickly flipped the pancake onto a piece of wax paper for the second man in the stall to finish the desert. Condensed milk was dripped evenly onto the pancake, and a cinnamon chocolate powder followed. After being rolled into taquito form, the brilliant chefs of this desert personally placed it into our hands. Oh, and we also bought an extra $0.75 banana milo for a small child that had his face plastered the glass with hungry eyes and one long shirt clothing him. In hopes of escaping the ambush of thousands of kids wanting the same thing from us, we secretly handed him one as we approached a tuk tuk. His unbelievably happy eyes looked up at us before he quickly ran off to hide his good fortune.

On the tuk tuk we all unwrapped our banana milo pancakes and took the first bite of the best food we have found here so far. Everything melted in my mouth with just enough sweetness to satisfy my taste buds. I would not be surprised if this treat became a regular Old Market snack and I wish I could bring it home for everyone. I suppose I will just have to get a recipe. :)

Coffee Angkor (Day 6)

Coffee Angkor has spent a week haunting my mind in my determination to find a local coffee house that immerses myself into the culture while giving me a caffeine fix. On the way to and from Old Market, Kristy and I point out Coffee Angkor's lackluster sign above motorbikes parked in from of the three walled, open-air structure each time. Not knowing anything about the coffee house and not caring to ask the people at our front desk, the discovery was left up to Kristy, Kaitlyn and I. Heading out on our free Saturday, the walk was longer than expected down the busiest road we have seen. Road 6 resembles a mixture of highway and street, and three American girls walking in the heat of day down the sidewalk was foreign to say the least. Numerous tuk tuk drivers yelled prices and places to us, unsure of where we were heading on foot, but each time we waved them on. The determination of these tuk tuk drivers have started to irk me. If I want a ride, I will walk up to you; if I want to walk, I am doing it for a reason; and when I say no, stop trying to sell me tourist sites to visit with you as my driver. Despite the bombardment of offers, the three of us finally reached the sign of Coffee Angkor, which was probably about a mile from our hotel.

Cambodia apparently has chocolate infused coffee beans, which I still haven't found and its description has made my taste buds curious. Not knowing what type of coffee or how to order it, we walked into the most interesting place yet with high hopes. Rainbow colored beach chairs lined the room and were separated by wooden coffee tables surrounded by two or three clustered chairs. The walls and roof were tightly thatched, making me happy for the dry, sunny day during our visit, and the walls had glued gum and drink advertisements. Each chair faced towards the direction of four TVs. This mini movie theatre type coffee house had all your viewing needs. One TV played American wrestling (always a necessity for a culturally American experience), another had Cambodia news, another played some scary black and white Frankenstein-type movie that was just plain old weird, and the fourth (and best) was a viewing of a pirated version of "The Tourist" that had not been released yet. The Tourist was my favorite of the four programs because I couldn't help but laugh at the abruptly translated English subtitles and Khmer playing over the speakers with an awkward high-pitched voice over for Angelina Jolie that was so farfetched that any American would probably roll around laughing. With minor communication issues about ordering, we finally conveyed "3 hot coffee" and our waitress quickly shuffled away.

At some point we realized there were no other women sitting down at the restaurant. Was this a man only hangout or was it coincidence? Seeing that we weren't turned away, I hoped that we weren't tip toeing on some Cambodian gender lines and stayed anyway. Now, the coffee. This is what we had all been searching for. As my hand raised the cup to my mouth, the aroma hit me before I even took a sip. Chocolate! A chocolate infused cup of coffee was cupped in my hand finally. The sip was a mixture of strong strong coffee, a little chocolate, but mainly a taste that left me looking for the alcohol bottle they poured in before they served the coffee. I doubt alcohol was in it, but the taste from coffee beans, must've been the strongest coffee I've tasted, resembled it. Pure nirvana was the emotion on each of our faces as we sat with all the other Cambodian locals enjoying coffee, playing chess, and watching hanging TVs. I described the place like a "mirage in the desert but actually real" because of the heat outside versus the cool mist drifting down from ceiling pipes above me. Along with the coffee, the lady set down a pot of tea at our table with a deliciously familiar yet unidentifiable smell. Overall, this entire experience cost $1.25 for all of us combined. Only in Cambodia.

The rest of the day:

- ate at the local noodle place down the street from us. Delicious

- visited and took home Megan from the hospital (with dysentery)

- ate dinner at an Irish Pub. I got creamy pesto pasta...I forgot about that stuff

- went to Pub Street, X bar, and Linga. Watched a drag show Cambodian style

- ate most delicious street food ever. Crepe/banana desert.

Our Neighbors and the Sala Market (Day 5)

Walking through the normally locked door beside our pool at Journeys Within we were met with a completely different landscape compared to our comfortable porch view. Narla led us back through dirt roads towards shanty houses that lined both sides of the street. This slum beside our B&B is one of the areas that Journeys Within has outreach programs, which include free classes and micro-financing loans. The houses on either side were made with thatched roofs or large pieces of metal and included one room, normally one bed for the parents, and the rest of the room portioned out into kitchen area and storage. The children normally sleep on the floor, which to my surprise was not dirt but instead either concrete or a nicer linoleum material.

As I rounded a corner, my ears heard laughter and music. At 10 a.m. it sounded as if a small party was gathering. The locals' eyes saw our pale skin and awkwardly taller membered group and quickly ran to introduce their music and dance. The children ran up to us, giving us high fives and hugging our legs, some without clothes, while others quickly yelled in between giggles for other children to greet us. Most likely they were calling something like "AH, everyone, come see the white foreigners. They look funny." While the small children had their fun, these two women were determined to get us to dance. The man playing music on a bucket would sing out words that were echoed to us by the women slowly moving their hands in the rhythmical way that most official Asian dances are done. Brian Creech, our burly and bearded T.A., was constantly pulled back to dance as people gathered smiled and chuckled.

I first expected the slum to be worse than I experienced. The word "slum" can be loaded with stereotypes of the living conditions of its inhabitants, that of dirt floors and dirt covered children, but I am glad to say this slum was not as heart-wrenching and as hopeless as others. Perhaps JWOC's aid has allowed for my stereotypes of a slum to be shattered, and I can only hope their help will further change it.

The rest of the day was full of RAIN! Lots and lots of rain, oh and some thunder. I love thunder and this was no exception. But as rainy season goes, after two hours it was as dry and humid as any other day. The most...interesting...part of our day was when Kristy, Kaitlyn and I decided to go the local Khmer market that they call "Sala." I did not know what to expect at this local market, but I knew that it wasn't catered to foreigners at all and would definitely mean interesting stories and sights. I was not wrong. The tuk tuk halted to a stop at the edge of the market, which seemed like a modest cluster of side stores at first. But, as you got closer you could see the market was actually a magnificently large gathering of stores next to one another selling absolutely everything. I felt as if I had walked into a Khmer style Walmart. To reach the entrance one would normally just walk past the numerous motorbikes parked outside, but because the amount of rain, the simple walkway had turned into a small lake a few inches deep in some areas. Realizing this area was probably not cleaned daily, or weekly, I quickly decided to walk until we found a dry crossing in our chacos. Worms and other things in disgusting water should be avoided if possible, and thankfully it was possible. Next we spent an hour or so walking through mazes and mazes of small one-person size aisles looking at cosmetics/jewelry, vats of unidentifiable thickness, and prom dresses. I have to admit, I did not think to buy anything there, but surely if I wanted a pair of jeans with "Iphone" or "Lexus" written on the pockets I would have. Escaping the corners of stench that hit you without notice, we soon left the market and walked across the street to a drink store. I bought a "grass jelly" and lychee drink. To my dislike and happiness the grass jelly drink was similar to the odd ice cream I had consumed last summer that had chunks of jelly hidden to the hungry and unknowing foreigner.

Sala market was a far different experience compared to the souvenir and crazed vibe of Old Market, making it more enjoyable, but I doubt I will be bringing back presents from there (unless you want chicken feet or a bedazzled prom dress).

Later at night we decided to see if Friday on Pub Street showed any similarity to Friday nights in Athens. Conclusion: although Siem Reap was not deserted, Athens is far more excited about this day of the week. Nonetheless we made it a great night by visiting our "usual" bar, Temple, and also exploring the streets for other potential hang outs. The "X bar" was added to our list because of its great rooftop location, pool tables, and sort of "beach" feel. Other than that, we ate late night pizza at this amazing pizza place, the Paper Tiger. Margherita pizza with crust that tasted like pita bread...yumm

Banteay Srei and Ta Phrom (Day 4)

Many would think seeing one more temple can become monotonous or cause a case of indifference, but no one showed signs of it today. If I was to guess, I would say this excitement stemmed from the itinerary for today’s travels: an hour tuk tuk ride through the rural countryside surrounded by open land full of rice paddies and a visit to the temple that Tomb Raider, staring Angelina Jolie, was filmed. The hour tuk tuk ride was so beautiful with its flat rice paddies, stilted houses made of various materials, and streets littered with sleeping people in hammocks or those carrying on with daily lives on their motorbikes and bicycles. The countryside seemed to cast Sara and I into a state of silence as my eyes struggled to imprint the views of the environment and the people in my mind.

Banteay Srei. This temple resembled the drip castle temples of previous days, and although smaller, its intricate adorned doorways, that must’ve taken artists months if not years, made the temple distinct. As soon as we were done discovering Banteay Srei, the tuk tuks departed for the landmines museum. Aki Ra, a Cambodian that was forced, at the age of ten, to become a soldier and plant land mines for the Khmer Rouge, created the Land Mine Museum and Relief Fund. A few years after he served as a soldier, he escaped and joined the Vietnam Army that fought against the Khmer Rouge to liberate Cambodia. His museum showcased thousands of land mines he has disabled and Cambodia’s dark history. The museum truly reminded me of the hardships that Cambodia faced in the past and present.

Ta Phrom is the temple made famous by Hollywood. Despite Hollywood’s introduction of this temple, the structure had characteristics that made it worthy and unique without screenplays. Ta Phrom has not been changed since its discovery. Every stone and fallen pillar has never moved or been replaced. And, I can’t forget the best part about this temple, the Sprung Tree. This tall tree has, like an octopus, taken over the temple. The roots drape over the ruins with elegance that only time allows and when you think the tree is done around the corner is another part of its root or trunk. How old the tree is, I have no idea.

For dinner, since we had such an unordinary dining experience the night before at the local restaurant, everyone agreed to eat at Viva, the Mexican restaurant. I have to say, it was a nice treat to eat an enchilada along with some chips, salsa, and guacamole. With stomachs full, the lights of the Night Market drew us in like moths. Don't worry though, we didn't thrash around in confusion like moths do (or did we?). The market was more enjoyable than the daytime market because music was playing, street food was cooking and sellers were far less aggressive. Well, minus the only lady seller who basically was putting pants on us to try and buy. With no money in my pockets and time proceeding to pass, I agreed to return with the rest of my group. Soon my eyes were closed and I found myself significantly fatigued from the day's excitement.