The Travelling Children go to Indochina (Part 3)

Im Kunthea, his cheerful smile and a 2 litre bottle of water arrived bright and early on the morning we had planned to visit Kampung Phluk. I felt the pores on my head begin to perspire as I tied my hair into a pony tail and greeted him. It amazed me that he never seemed to break a sweat even though he told us that he always wore long sleeved shirts and long trousers. I glanced at Alan - dressed in shorts and a sports singlet. He had only just two minutes before stepped out of our air-conditioned room and was already mopping his face and neck with one of those microfibre gym towels. Nobody sweats like my Alan.

We handed Kunthea and Mr Yuteney a Cadbury chocolate block each (careful to caution Mr Yuteney to go slow on consumption as he's a Type 2 Diabetic) and found out that all of us had slept very soundly and enjoyed a filling breakfast. Good old Aussie vegemite on thick toast for us, rice and a side-dish for our Cambodian friends.
“Ready, Maya?” Kunthea asked me.
“Yes, Thea. Let’s go to Kampuuung …” I trailed off the way Kunthea did in his teacher-style way of phrasing sentences.
“Phluk!” he replied, without missing a beat, breaking again into a big smile that revealed his even white teeth.

The journey to Kampung Phluk is indeed a very pretty one. Again along the way, on both sides of the road for the first fifteen minutes of our tuk-tuk ride, we were sandwiched between waterways. Unfurling their pink tipped petals as they swayed their heads gently in the breeze greeting the sunshine and the traffic – lotus blooms at different intervals shared their sodden dwellings with water lilies and little children. The children beautifully brown from the sun appeared carefree and happy as they squealed in delight catching tadpoles and dragonflies or just splashing around in the water. Out of the past, I heard my grandmother's voice calling, "Juuude, you are going to get hookworms, stop playing in that pokaria (dirty) water! "

Mr Yuteney began to signal and then turned right onto a narrow dirt-road. To our delight we were suddenly in a deep shade under tall leafy trees and treated with the company of Khmer-style kampong houses raised on stilts. Pigs, goats, cows and all manner of poultry roamed around freely. “Free range chooks” Alan said to me pointing out to the chickens running across the road. I looked at them and realised they were quite skinny. I wondered if it was due to all the exercise they enjoyed. Even though the road was bumpy, the ride through the kampong was truly a gift of nostalgia and I secretly hoped we would be on it for a while. It reminded me of the days before Singapore had raced ahead of all its South East Asian cousins in its determination to cast off all that it deemed old fashioned only to loose a great deal of its natural charm. We would have encountered hundreds of children, some completely naked running around happily while their older brothers and sisters in school uniforms were leaving for class. Many of them looked at us and waved energetically; the biggest smiles you could imagine on delighted little faces as high pitched voices called out hello after hello.
After about fifteen minutes of waving and calling out to the children – we were told by Mr Yuteney that he could not go any further for the road was in a very bad state due to all the heavy rains – he had been weaving around massive pot-holes filled with muddy water for a good eight minutes. We got out with Kunthea and walked a short distance to where a long boat was waiting for us.

Our boatman looked fifteen but he assured us with a large grin that he was seventeen, finished with school and as Kunthea added reassuringly, excellent at his job. Our concern albeit unvoiced was not that he was too young to take us on the long ride to Kampung Phluk but that he probably had to leave school at a young age to help supplement the family income. He held out his hand and helped me on board, he was small but obviously strong.

Alan and I could probably live on water. We enjoy being out on a boat and every time we travel, we include a tour or part of our journey on water - be it just us on a sampan enjoying the cool breeze or on a bigger vessel with others. The first time we traveled together was on our honeymoon and it was a cruise through the Straits of Malacca, to Penang and Phuket. As the present adventure on water began, we started to tell Kunthea (who by the way, loved learning about other cultures and religions) about a couple of our water journeys. One, in Hong Kong around a fishing village on stilts and my all time favourite occasion so far – the crowded ferry-crossings that we made from Cochin to Ernakulam and back on our last trip to India. Why would we choose to take an air-conditioned taxi when we could travel like the locals, right?

For those of you who have read our entries from 2006 you may remember the comedy of it all; where men and women had to queue separately for tickets. Then to our amusement, finding ourselves with the same men and women pressed against each other from the lack of space, before being herded on board when the ferry arrived. It was so ridiculous and so Indian. On our last crossing, it was pouring with rain while we were trying to catch the second last ferry for the night. The employees at the terminal on the Ernakulam side pushed us together with the other men and women onto an already fully packed ferry. We were exhausted, soaked to our skins and laden with shopping bags slung over our shoulders. I still remember grabbing onto whatever rusty pole or handle I could feel between all the bodies and seeing the look on Alan’s face. We were in the moment and loving it. How we laughed at being sardined like locals on that rusty boat. Nobody complaining, a young man singing a song from a recent Bollywood movie, people smiling at our amusement – the kind of moment I usually take a mental snapshot of, to pull out and indulge in every now and then. Okay, I've indulged. *smile*

Suddenly we realised that the boatman had taken us out to what appeared to be at first a vast ocean. It was Tonle Sap Lake. Kunthea told us that at its fullest - it is 135 km long. It was truly magnificent – there was nobody else around, just faraway boats and us bobbing around on ours with its homemade motor parts. I say homemade because it was so obviously put together with odd bits and pieces and a whole lot of imagination. Because the waters in many areas around the fishing villages were shallow at most times of the year, the boatmen had come up with their ingenious tilting of the engine block and extending the propeller to prevent it bottoming out. The boats were built narrow and long to manoeuvre the narrow channels and had garden hose tubes that ran along the inside of the boat acting as water pumps. The steering wheel on our boat had seen a previous life in a Honda automobile ... even in Cambodia, like other Asian countries, Honda is held in high esteem.

We sat there enjoying the view and the cool breeze for a few minutes before Kunthea told our boatman to head to the fishing village. He turned to Alan and me, smiling. Keeping up with the teacher to student prompting “Kampuuuung … ?”
“Phluk!” we replied like good Travelling Children.
This made our 17 year old boatman giggle.


The homes on stilts in Kampung Phluk were eye-catching. Built out of bamboo and coconut tree products – many homes were decorated with bold coloured curtains and other soft furnishings. Several had hammocks or swings hanging off their verandas and some obviously ate their meals alfresco as tables with pretty tablecloths graced many of these verandas too. Little sampans filled the waterways between the rows of homes where children played, swam and filled the scene with sounds of laughter. Like the children we had passed in the morning, the hellos and energetic waving began. Splashing around, swimming up to us or just swaying side to side on their verandas trying in their gentle manner to get our attention.




We spent a good length of time in this little kampong having a coffee at one of the homes taking in the sights, sounds and smells while the people went about their daily activities all around us. Later, we visited the floating temple and primary school. Alan and I found ourselves surrounded the entire time with the village children and loved every single moment. We were impressed with their creativity in finding ways to make toys and floatation devices and most of all, their ability to have fun. At the school many were so tiny, they looked like they were only 3 or 4 years old, and I wondered at what age they started school. The children around us laughed at my questions as I sat on the steps talking to them, the tiny ones were around 6 years in age. The girl who had greeted us when we arrived was exceedingly intelligent and the only one in her family of 8 children to be given the opportunity to have a secondary education. Her day began at 4.30am as she went to high school on the mainland but had chores to do at home before leaving. The reason she was at the primary school that day was that it was her turn to perform duties at the temple. I pictured her each school morning, getting on a boat in the darkness making the long journey. How I admired her. Alan and I were astonished at her knowledge, her decorum and the way the little children looked up to her. She explained to us the reason for the small stature was that they ate mainly rice, vegetables and fish; and they did not take vitamin supplements. But she told me, the reason she was tall and strong was that her family made many sacrifices in order for her to have better food. I realised this young girl was her family’s hope for the future, they knew how gifted she was. Alan and I exchanged glances, knowing that the other was thinking of all the education opportunities the children in Australia have, and take for granted.

I hugged her as we got ready to leave. She and some of the other children ran out and jumped onto the other boats that were tied to the pier. I felt my eyes mist as I sent up a prayer for all of them.

What an honour it was for us to have been a part of their lives for those few short hours.

The Travelling Children go to Indochina (Part 2)

Siem Reap, Cambodia had emerged though thick clouds quite suddenly. From the air, with the sun reflecting brilliantly, it looked like a never ending patchwork quilt made up mostly of mirrored lakes and sequined waterways interlaced with fresh green fauna. Mother Nature’s handiwork held together by woven threads of terracotta dirt roads. It was enchanting, and made me think of my beloved grandmother and Karikal Lane. (Previous entries refer: Mama’s Friends, I am Indian - Part 2 and Peace One Day.) I was back on the dirt road on which I would run barefoot with her chickens and geese, the one lined with the Flame of the Forest trees and ferns leading to the convent by the sea. Waving cheekily at the nuns who mostly looked strict, starched and sweaty under all that unnecessary fabric in the tropical heat; and old Merlarni and Uncle Caretaker pretending to admonish me for being sassy. Yes, definitely Singapore in the 60’s, during my early childhood. I like this place, Siem Reap, home of Angkor Wat.

Angkor International Airport, with its traditional Khmer architecture and lush tropical gardens was like a jewel that men had creatively inserted into that patchwork - it was positively stunning. Inside, it was thoroughly modern yet maintained its local flavour in its choice of artwork. We were especially taken with the contemporary iron sculpture of Buddha sitting majestically under vibrant red umbrellas, high above the baggage carousels. Alan was equally impressed with the level of efficiency (despite the customary sourness of its customs officers), while I marvelled in admiration at the abilities of their cleaning staff. The floors and the floor-to-ceiling windows were immaculate.

A smiling man in his late 50’s with a purple sign that had my name correctly spelt (and in neat handwriting too) had been waiting 2 hours for our arrival. You see, unfortunately our flight had been delayed.
He placed his palms together (like doing Namaste) and with a slight bow said,
“Haaarllow welcome to Siem Reap, I Mr Yuteney. Come, come.”
He took our lone suitcase from Alan and led us outside. Walking, walking … past all the vans and all the cars, still walking. Alan looked amused.
“Kyo? Kya hwa?” I asked in Hindi. (Why? What happened?)
Alan, smiling replied in patio Portuguese “Hmmm, yo lembra isti elee se roda roda! Ola!” (Hmmm, I think those are his wheels! Look!)

I realised what mode of transport was to be our pre-arranged airport transfer and immediately began my bouncing side to side, hands waving thing that I do when I get excited. We were expecting the mandatory car or van and instead the Australian couple, who ran the place we were going to stay at, had sent … a tuk-tuk.

Cambodia is Buddha country. The single-laned dusty road that led the way to the next three days in the lives of the Travelling Children, was lined with narrow waterways on either side that were filled with hundreds of pink lotus blooms. I love the lotus flower. To the Buddhist it is the symbol of enlightenment, and to a Christian it could so easily be a symbol of Christ’s resurrection. The lotus comes to bud out of the still muddy waters (ignorance and worldly attachment, even death) rising above the surface clean and pure (enlightened, resurrected) ready to open its petals and share its perfume with mankind. I felt so deeply happy and I allowed my imagination to believe they were forming a guard of honour for Alan and me. What a beautiful welcome.

Every tourist goes to Siem Reap to see the sacred site of Angkor Wat. It was built during the early 12th Century by King Suryavaram II and stories of the site captured our imaginations when Alan and I were just children playing badminton at school and eating nasi lemak (coconut rice) after Mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Succour Church. It always had a fairy tale adventure sort of quality … the idea of an ancient city of temples built in a jungle for the Hindu God, Vishnu – second member of the Trimuti, the Hindu Holy Trinity. But back then, there was also Pol Pot, the insanity behind Year Zero and his decimation of culture and traditions through genocide. It seemed like for most of my school days Kampuchea was always in the news and it terrified me to the point of having nightmares. So before I write about our tour of the temples, please allow me to share something with you about the people of Cambodia that I have come to greatly admire.

There were a couple of lines I remember my father had said in revulsion on several occasions, during the evil reign of Pol Pot, which had become the catch-cry of the Khmer Rouge. I looked it up on Google the other day. “To keep you is no benefit; to destroy you is no loss” and “Bullets are not to be wasted.” This was in reference to the thousands upon thousands of starving people who were taken out to dig their own mass graves, then beaten with shovels and metal pipes, and buried alive. Not a pleasant subject, but we never visit a country with disinterest in the people, to relax in a bar and drink beer at 50 cents a mug. Cambodia IS a difficult place to visit and we wanted to know more when we got there. I allowed myself to peer into the past … the past that was over. And even though the pain still lay in the present and old ghosts will come back to haunt, the amazingly resilient people of Cambodia were transforming the present. We saw how they did not chase the past and that they refused to be overwhelmed by it. They speak about the stench and the horrors, for it will remain a part of their history and should never be forgotten. But I admired their ability to plant their feet so firmly in the safety of the present - the peaceful times of now, and to move forward without allowing the uncertain ghosts of the future to overpower them either. That they have achieved this state of mind without professional counselling, is indeed a powerful lesson, one I hope to always be mindful of.

The road to Angkor Wat is called quite simply … The Road to Angkor Wat. And what a beautiful ride it was in Mr Yuteney’s tuk-tuk, getting to know Kunthea our guide. We quite suddenly were no longer in a built-up area of any description and stopping to buy our tickets. We each took turns to stand in front of this little one-eyed ball that flashed and were within mere moments awarded with tickets that included the most terrible photos of Alan and me that we have ever had the pleasure of having.

We had planned to be at Angkor Wat for the sunrise that morning but it had poured with rain overnight and then even more heavily through the sunrise we never witnessed. I looked at my watch as we got back onto the tuk-tuk with our precious photograph ID tickets; it was close to 9am. There were pools of muddy water in the pot-holes along the side of the road; a road that I soon realised was coursing through a beautiful jungle. The muddy pools continued to present themselves and I began to feel thankful that it had rained, for even though we missed the sunrise, we were being rewarded now with a very wet tropical jungle experience. The leaves in the trees all freshly bathed were dewy and in gorgeous shades of brilliant green; the textures on the barks of the trees were more prominent and a shade or two darker from the dampness, every minute detail seemed to just jump out at us. This is how God does Photoshop. I smiled to myself and inhaled the wet jungle smells. The ground was giving off that earthy after the rain smell, which is different in Asia than it is here at home.

Kunthea invited us to step out of the tuk-tuk when the area opened up before us and revealed a man-made moat. We walked towards the stone wall that surrounded the water and he began his stories of the area and how Angkor Wat came to be. It was fascinating. As we walked along listening, I asked him what it was I saw across the moat in the distance – I knew it had to be the famous centre piece of Angkor, but it didn’t feel majestic like the hundreds of photographs I had seen. Kunthea’s eyes lit up and confirmed it was Angkor Wat. I felt my heart skip an immediate beat and then slowly sink, I felt terribly childish for reacting that way.

I did not tell Alan how I was feeling as we began to cross the long bridge. Kunthea went on filling our minds with information and I kept telling myself to keep my mind and my heart open. My eyes kept going back to the centre-piece as it got closer. Where is that feeling of awe that I should be having? I was listening to Kunthea so I can give you statistics. The Angkor Archaeological Park is around 400 sq km in size, the size of Manhattan. Angkor Wat itself being about 12 sq km. The very long bridge that takes you across the moat is guarded on either side by seven headed nagas (mythological serpents). The Travelling Children know that the naga represents water, fertility and power in our ‘homeland’ sub-continent but I believe Kunthea said this seven headed expanded version represented the seven races of Angkor. He also told us that during the time of Pol Pot landmines were strewn all over the vast jungle and the moat was filled with death.

There are several carvings of closed mouthed smiling dancing apsaras (heavenly feminine creatures) on the outer walls, while the galleries along the façade to the right and the left of the main entrance contained carvings depicting stories from the Ramayana, the Mahabharata and everyday life. Although built for Lord Vishnu and a massive statue of him greets visitors when you enter through the main arches, Theravada Buddhism co-exists today in harmony with Hinduism within the same complex.

Angkor Wat (12th Century) is perhaps the most important archaeological site in South East Asia. It is commanding and beautiful in its own right, and I know if we had never been to India I would have felt it was majestic and it may even have taken my breath away. I believe that perhaps if the design was not so similar in structure to the Dravidian temples we had seen in Ellora (8th Century) or Khajuraho (9th Century) I would not have allowed my mind to make the unfair comparisons. But wasn’t I comparing apples with apples? Were these not all Hindu temples? I could not marvel at the carvings even though I kept willing myself to get excited. My mind just could not let go of the beauty and deep intricacy of the carvings of Khajuraho (9th Century) and Ajanta (1st – 2nd Century). I was completely irritated with myself. How will I share with Alan my disappointment when this has been our dream since childhood?

Next stop after a very filling lunch was the city of Angkor Thom, built by Jayavarman VII - the ruins with the mysterious faces. Like Angkor Wat, a man-made moat ran all around the city. There were five gates; North, South, East, West and the Victory Gate - we made our entry by the South Gate. It was guarded on the left by statues of the Buddha and other Enlightened Beings and on the right by statues of Mara, Lord of Death and other demons. The giant faces over the archway entrance were those of Buddhist Bodhisattva, Avalokiteshvara. It was beautiful. I whispered to Alan “His Holiness the Dalai Lama.” Tibetans you see believe that the Dalai Lama is an incarnation of Avalokiteshvara (Chenrezig in Tibetan).

As we entered the walled city, we approached what looked like piles of rubble and right in the middle of it was the state temple called Bayon. Angkor Thom is definitely different. It looked like a child who had much inspiration but never seen Lego, had been collecting bits of rubble that he patiently sanded down into square blocks. And one day, when he had an ample supply sat down and decided to fit it all together to build something special. That he completed it by topping towers and arches with faces of himself, Buddha and Avalokiteshvara was both unique and narcissistic. I liked it.

This time because I was so interested in everything around me I cannot give you much statistical information, of which our friend Kunthea had lots. The poor man could tell I was not listening and a couple of times he even repeated information like a school teacher would ... without completing a word or sentence ... eyebrows raised looking directly at me and waiting for me to fill in the blanks. I wonder if he thought I had too much coffee at lunch. Little did he realise my real reasons for giving him my undivided attention at Angkor Wat earlier in the day.

Our final stop was Ta Prohm or Tomb Raider Temple as it was the set of the movie Angelina Jolie made with Daniel Craig in 2000. I was working at the time with Daniel’s uncle, Terry Craig at Notre Dame University and Terry used to tell me stories from the filming. I remember feeling so happy that Daniel was in such a big budget movie, albeit one he only did for the Hollywood ‘big break’.

Ta Prohm Temple is fascinating as it is completely overgrown with massive trees sprouting in, around, on top and in between the ruins. The walls were covered with patches of moss and lichen; in some places so thick it was spongy. Ta Prohm went beyond fulfilling all my childhood fantasies from my imaginings of the fabled Angkor Wat - it was fairytale enchanting and was built as a Mahayana Buddhist monastery and university by King Jayavarman VII. Other than a few safety precautions put in place for tourists, Ta Prohm has been left thankfully in the same condition it was in when it was discovered - uncleared, full of mystery and atmosphere. It would have been wonderful if we could have gone back there the next morning – just the Travelling Children; picnic breakfast and a chance to reflect on the sheer expanse of time that it took for the power of nature to initially ravage and disfigure, but now exhibit such beauty and symbiosis as nature turned man’s work into her own.

The Travelling Children go to Indochina (Part 1)

Several friends who in 2006 read my travel blog entries when Alan and I went to India had been waiting in anticipation for the stories of the Travelling Children when we recently visited Indochina. Sitting in the tiny maze-like Internet shops among fellow travelers and my Indian brethren was something I relished doing almost daily back then. However, I found myself completely lacking in inspiration while in Saigon (Ho Chi Minh) and Siem Reap.

I’m not sure what Alan and I expected on this short sojourn. We knew it was going to be different to our sometimes audacious treks through what Donny smilingly refers to as our ‘homeland’, but we embraced the unfamiliarity with enjoyment. We giggled at the thought that it gave family and friends a respite from our obsessive attachment to the Indian sub-continent.

We arrived in Saigon with just one suitcase containing both our carry-on cases, an insignificant amount of clothes - many of them disposable, toiletries and of course several kilos of chocolate. Chocolates as you all know make excellent little gifts in Asia but let me explain to the uninitiated Alan’s concept of disposable clothes. He means tops, shorts, skirts and underwear that have seen better days which we could throw out at the end of the holiday. Heaven forbid if we should have an accident - of course my mother did warn me to always be prepared for such a calamity by not wearing holey un-mended underwear. But I have lived with Alan for 24 years and I love being a part of some of the strange yet practical ideas he’s suitably tailored into my life. Saving my old underwear for holidays has become one of them.

We took a taxi from the airport and of course being seasoned in the ways of taxi drivers thinking that tourists are unsuspecting in the taxi industry tales of ‘meter broken’ or that the hotel of our choice had burnt down overnight, Alan wheeled our lone suitcase past a multitude of them until he came upon the first honest-looking driver. The man had a lovely smile and even though he spoke very little English, he engagingly pointed out the various places of interest we passed on our short but traffic-filled ride in air-conditioned comfort.

The Spring Hotel was highly recommended by the bible. (Hello, you know the one … Lonely Planet Guide, holy book of travelers across the world.) The young man at the desk was all smiles and very helpful. He asked a kindly looking doorman to show us the two rooms that were available. Unfortunately, they were heavily booked and could only provide accommodation for a night. But you know the Travelling Children never allow such things to be thought of as an inconvenience - if we had to move, it just meant another adventure.

The first room was a suite and it was lovely in a mid-range Asian hotel trying to look western sort of way, the second was one I have never had an opportunity to observe first hand. It had the usual king-sized bed, an ample dressing table, a sitting area and TV, and all semblance of a window - only to reveal a brick wall behind the curtains. “I want this room Alan, I’ve never been in a bedroom with a fake window!” The doorman laughed at my amusement, and he told me the money we saved would buy us a lot at Ben Thanh Market. I liked him immediately. As we checked in, the young man at the desk told us that if nothing became available, they would move us to another hotel the next afternoon at a time convenient to us - something that friends and relatives who are familiar with the Travelling Children would guess, we DID have to do.

There is a lot of construction work going on in Saigon, everywhere you look some new building or complex is rising – it reminded us of Singapore during the 80’s. Towering yellow cranes and giant Tonka like earthmovers competed with the reverberation of drilling and banging sounds. Dust from the earth and cement that filled the humid air made me mechanically reach for my Nasonex spray, as agile men and women climbed up the bamboo scaffolding with apparent ease and no safety persuasions in place.

Saigon also has to be the world’s capital of motorbikes and scooters - 4 million in a city of 8 million people. We stood on the uneven pavement outside our hotel, under a noodle-like web of dusty black overhead power cables in the slightly up market leafy area of Dong Khoi, both of us silently observing as to the left of us, and to the right, before us and behind … life in Saigon went about its daily grind. I tell you folks, Asia is so exciting.

Scattered between Pho Noodle houses and motorbike repair places were endless little shops selling rows of shiny lacquer-ware, copies of famous art-work... some better attempts than others, dress shops, tailors, shoe and scarf shops, hat and helmet shops – nearly everything you could possibly imagine was on offer, including marijuana from the odd pusher. Add to that the sophisticated looking homeware establishments with very arty window displays – the kind that would make me catch my breath and wickedly beckon me to enter only to hit me callously with prices in US dollars that would make me retreat in disbelief. Cruel.

We also discovered a generous sprinkling of wonderful cafés and restaurants among these streets. Let me say this now so there is no confusion ever - Vietnamese coffee is to die for and the air-conditioned cafes are nirvana to bedraggled tourists unaccustomed to the suffocating humidity. Vietnamese food is also a delight and is more than just Pho and Vietnamese spring rolls. The variety of textures, the smells and the way the different flavours hit your palate is an experience we will always be more than willing to encounter and partake of again and again. We sampled as many dishes as we possibly could fit on our table at each meal. Alan of course, led and ate the way. Relishing the variety of make-your-own rice paper rolls for example where the ingredients arrived separately on several platters, we used our hands to make them up, dipping them generously into the sauces and shamelessly scoffing them down. We know how to eat.

And then there is Ben Thanh Markets. It is one of the oldest surviving structures in Saigon and is a huge wet and dry market. We were advised by our friendly doorman to visit it first thing in the morning as it was then not as hot or crowded. We handed him some chocolate as we ventured out the next day at 7am. Ben Thanh is wonderful and we found ourselves delighting in the process of checking out prices, getting to know stall holders and establishing little relationships with some of them as we became return visitors … several times during our stay.

Tourists cannot visit Saigon and not visit the Cu Chi Tunnels and Cao Dai Temple. One a reminder of the ugly war and the other, the beauty of religious peace. Cao Daism is a religion that fuses the religious philosophies and teachings of most of the world religions. Founded by the mystic Ngo Minh Chieu in 1926 its philosophy appealed very much to me. The main tenets include believing in one God, the existence of the soul, karma and reincarnation. To reach heaven and escape samsara you had to perform certain duties … no killing, no lying, no over luxurious living, no sexual abuse and no stealing. Sound familiar?

The priests and followers were so welcoming and we were allowed to walk freely around the temple and take photos. It filled me with so much joy to see images of the Buddha and other Eastern religion deities with Jesus … all having a place side by side in Heaven, with God being represented by an all seeing Eye. It was one of the rare occasions in my life where I did not need my camera, even though I could feel all the photographic opportunities around me. I handed the camera to Alan and whispered “Go for your life, babe!” Instead, I took a mental picture as I said my prayers, and I liked the way it made me feel. I knew stories from most of these separate religions and I started to think of the sameness that they shared. My friend Ganesha was not up there, but I included him in my thoughts. Mass started at mid-day and we stayed for a small portion of it. It was beautiful. *bbsigh* Cao Dai - if only all religions could be as open and inclusive as this, how quickly peace might come to stay.

Next stop, Cu Chi. Consisting of only 80,000 residents during the Vietnam War, Cu Chi was an area of intense fighting and destruction. The underground network of hand-dugged tunnels, some of which were several storeys deep ran from South Vietnam to the Cambodian border and in the town of Cu Chi alone there were 250 kms of tunnels.

The history is gruesome and I will not even attempt to go into it for many others have written about Cu Chi, including first hand experiences of the war. I will mention however that I had apprehensions of crawling through a tourist-friendly, widened section of the tunnels initially, but our guide was truly wonderful. This very educated man had watched helplessly as his house burned down and his son was slaughtered during the heart-wrenching times the Saigonese had seen. He, who lost his family to the communists then, was today earning his living telling stories of the courage and the tenacity of the Cu Chi people. His own courage and his forgiveness made me want to have some understanding of the ‘enemy’ and their years spent underground. That they used scrap metal from the very same bombs that had been dropped on them to make the sharp instruments of death used in their ingenious and cruel traps, made me feel ill and filled my eyes with tears. I felt deeply for the young American and Australian soldiers who found death so gruesomely in that mosquito infested foreign jungle. It was too horrible, yet I could not help but feel admiration for the Cu Chi people. Their strength and their determination to achieve the impossible left me in wonder.

Deafening rifle firing continues to fill the air, as there is a shooting range on site for those who wish to fire an AK-47 or other weapons. Why would you want do that? Alan and I sat on a stone seat under the trees, hand in hand quietly listening ... we could hear the cicadas and crickets between the shots. There was an intensely sad feeling all around – I kept staring at the ground before me, my mind seeing it drenched with the blood of fallen soldiers from both sides of the conflict, and the Cu Chi cooking, eating, making their weapons and their babies deep beneath. I knew I would carry what I had already seen and learnt with me forever. Now, I had to crawl through for I would never have really visited Cu Chi until I did. Our guide was right.

One more thing I would like to mention. We have heard of Agent Orange of course, the defoliant/herbicide that America sprayed over South Vietnam during the war. We knew that it caused cancer and terrible deformities and organ dysfunction. But I cannot tell you how it made me feel to see some of the victims first hand and realise that children are until today being born with horrendous deformities in areas that still contain the residue. I never felt like running from the worst of the disfigured lepers in India, but seeing victims of Agent Orange made me feel that way. My immediate reaction therefore was not to think of it. It is only now that we are back home that I have allowed myself to think and I have started to Google and research the topic, each time with a lump in my throat. Here are some pictures, but I must warn you, they will break your heart.

http://i.abcnews.com/Health/popup?id=4610286&content

It is hard to continue, but I cannot leave you on such a low. For as long as there is life, there is hope and with hope, there is joy. Here are some of mine.

A lovely lady from the Cao Dai temple who never for a moment let the smile in her eyes dissappear as she spoke to us.


This gorgeous little boy waved excitedly as we drove by. I wanted to bring him home with me.

Waking up each morning knowing a strong and wonderful Vietnamese coffee was on the breakfast menu was a grand way to start the day.

Daniel Craig and the massive Omega advertisement that appeared just as I was whinging about the humidity. Daniel looked so dangerously sexy, the ad should have come with a warning.

I promise to return with stories of Cambodia in my next entry.