Whacking Technique

Posted on November 25, 2014 by amy freya

Sangke River- complete with local fisherman

Sangke River – spot the local fisherman?

Here in Battambang it’s been an unusually dry, rainy season. There is sometimes a pitter patter at night but not guaranteed. The heavens often frown with a shade of grey/brown only to tease us with sunshine once more.

When it rains, Quinn makes the most of it ! Street outside our house

When it rains, Quinn makes the most of it! This is our street.

The town’s water levels are low causing the water supply to be quite erratic. Last week, we had no water for 3 days. It coincided with an outstanding water bill that was going brown in our mailbox since August unbeknownst to us. A grumpy government official turned up at our house whilst we were at work. The nanny who comes to watch the kids for a few hours every day, tried to work her charm but he would not be deterred. Water mains switched off.

And as life sometimes has it….the Gods have a giggle…Murphy came a knockin……Tim went down with dysentery the next day. Copious diarrhoea and no running water is not a winning combination. We had the bucket and scoop technique down, using bought drinking water (you can’t drink the tap water throughout Cambodia) to flush away most of the damage. Soon sage incense was burning in every toilet in the house.

But as Tim worsened ending in a trip to the hospital (we didn’t get lost this time All in a Day) where they mainlined his veins with rehydration and antibiotics, I decided that we better address this water situation asap. In the midst of calling our boss who is far enough up the fishing pole to make a difference, ie. if he lodges a call at the water department, they listen; our resourceful nanny Sreypheak armed with two pieces of bamboo tried the good ol’ whacking technique. BiNgO. Nothing like a good smack to set things straight. The pipes chugged to life.

Beau has the ‘whack attack’ technique down pat

This technique is used liberally to fix just about anything here. When a motorbike is being temperamental, a hard slap on its engine is the first port. I never cease to be amazed how resourceful the Cambodian people are. The reuse, recycle, restart, retie, retry, reinvent method is everywhere you look.

Kite made by the neighbours- plastic bags, skewers and cotton reel.

Kite made by the neighbours- plastic bags, skewers, rubber bands and cotton reel.

Coming from the modern disposable culture, this is refreshing to see. It is not that they don’t have disposable products here- they are as ubiquitous as air, but the disposable part isn’t understood by people who have learnt to survive on nothing but their wits. Understood by a look at their history, being cut off from the world during Khmer Rouge days and the legacy that left, literally beginning at Ground Zero with memories of starvation fresh in their minds.

Tim stayed in a cot bed for 2 days sandwiched between two families nursing their palliative parents. I was warned by the nurse not to bring our boys into visit as Beau had the trots the week before, and who knows what germs he could catch in there. This knowledge was appreciated but didn’t put my mind to rest. Tim had many long hours in fetal position as the neighbouring Cambodians kept asking where his family was. Even though this is the best hospital in Battambang, patients’ families do most of the legwork from emptying catheters, showering, changing linen, cooking food to even administering medication. Loved ones camp out around the clock keeping a constant vigil at their bedside. Nurses are present but often on their mobile phones. It was a case of googling what drugs Tim was having to get any information. The Khmer doctor was approachable but very difficult to understand.

It makes you realise how far Cambodia has come from the KR days where all the medical knowledge was lost with the desecration of qualified doctors. Western influences shunned including the supply of medicine used for prevented diseases such as malaria. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot! 21% of the total population from 1975-1979 were wiped out mainly due to starvation as everyone were herded from cities and expected to toil in the soil. The idealists in power believed that agricultural reform and total self sufficiency would help return Cambodia to its former glory days of Angkor Kingdom. Yet another historical example of extreme ideology defying logic. And possibly shows how countries need to trade and be interdependent, just like no one person can operate as an island. This fanaticism was spawned out of hardship- Cambodia had years of foreign occupation (Thailand and France had a go) and the brutal disregard for the Khmer people who had more US bombs dropped on their homeland throughout the Vietnam War years (1965-1973) than any other country.

These rascals have so much fun being….rascals

I’m pleased to say Tim is back home with us. A thinner and more subdued version but thankfully cramp free. He reckons he got an insight into child birth! He found a weighted keyboard in a junk shop covered in dust. He’s been teaching himself. Enjoy!

Hope you’re health full where ever this finds you x

Learning to Love

Posted on November 4, 2014 by amy freya

Life is sometimes murky. Not always perky.

This content may be depressing for readers. Read on at your own discretion.

I get this zipped up feeling in my belly and my head cogs get stuck on sticky tape when I hear the word depression.

It’s like being at a party and you put your foot in it, the saliva dripping off your toes. There’s that pause, shuffling feet moment .That’s what depression can feel like….awkward, anxious, uncomfortable.

And what sucks ball is that it isn’t easy to laugh.

There is nothing better than just after you’ve shoved your foot in it, by stating your dislike for someone or something (not realising the familial connection) they agree with you or were playing you… and there’s that raucous release as everyone recovers. And usually a closer connection has been made. Humour being the best bloody medicine.

Well it can be hard ..

To get out of one’s head.
It’s often easier to get off one’s face.

I’ve spent most of the last decade riding the roller coaster that is becoming a parent. The new level of responsibility that dawned on me when I first held my little prince. And from the moment I was taken back to the maternity ward, and spent that sleepless, exhilarating first night alert and buzzing with disbelief and happiness that this holy baby was ours. I felt so much and slept so little. And questioned what I did and was I doing it right? And what if he got left to cry, and I didn’t want that so I remain forever vigilant. On duty. Poised for action.

And all this responsibility. Giving and responsibility. Two things that a parent is expected to do into eternity. And sometimes you just don’t feel it, or have it or feel overwhelmed by it.

My shoulders grew wide balancing the dumb bells, scared to look up in case they fell and snapped my neck. So I ploughed on trying to keep busy in case stopping meant they fell. I sought help in the conventional avenues. Shopped at therapy world. Became a Eastern medicine consumer. Regular dives in chlorinated waters connecting with my inner dolphin. All of which have helped and remain in a tool bag. I haven’t taken medication but it is another useful tool to get out of a rut.

At first, I basically didn’t want to hear anything about depression. What good can come of dwelling on it by talking about it. I grew up in a family that bloody well got on with it. No point in talking about something that doesn’t exist.

You’re a “Wilson” and we’re Aussie Battlers. Herefords with thick hides.

One can live or half live trapped in a man size zipper, your throat choked, even if a smile is plastered on your face. You can see the beautiful people in your life. It’s like having a curiosity cabinet full of quirky, artistic trinkets and beauty right in front of you, but it ‘s behind glass. And you, fogging up the glass wanting to reach out and embrace them but can’t. And the more the word can’t is parried around, mostly silently to yourself, your feelings of self doubt and failure grow in the quiet, dark places.

It is hard to understand this unless you actually been there. And if you’re there, it’s not an easy place to even recognise.

You feel like a cold fish in a warm pond. And knuckles white like Santa’s beard. And you’re wishing for Christmas to come and maybe with enough wishing and hoping, they’ll all come at once to jumpstart you into action.

Coming to Cambodia was part of this action- fulfilling a long held dream and a fresh canvas. In many ways it is providing a space for self reflection (as you can read!). A space I expected to fill with giving and volunteering and thinking about others. As an antidote to depression, giving to others helps. It does. When I am with the kids at work, I feel joy. I get cuddles and smiles, contagious ointment for my mossy soul. But then the old feelings arise again, I head for the fridge to soothe my fears. I eat fast, trying to choke down feelings of inadequacy.

It is such a waste. If only….if only I could snap out of it. And there are daily moments I do, seeing a bubbly cloud in the sky and a flash of warmth in a smile. Hearing the kids call ‘hello’ as they wave and run behind my bicycle. I am very lucky to be here in Cambodia. And that gratitude has a positive effect.

The concentration of lego sessions- 13 kids joined us last week

the concentration of lego sessions- 13 kids joined in last week

I see I have a responsibility to admit to myself (and now to the world) that yes. It is real and it follows one wherever they go. So no more denial. It is a process of learning to breathe through the uncomfortable feelings when they come. Often by slowing down rather than speeding up.

And finally learning to love, truly love myself and the darker side of the moon moments. Because the fighting, running and hating only fuels rather than forgives.

My friend who has battled the black dog for many years once told me, ‘You have to work on yourself.’ No one else can do it for you. And you have to stop and look at the pain, embrace it, love it and from there, you can begin to let it go and move on.

Thanks for listening dear friends.

All in a day

Posted on October 21, 2014 by amy freya

So we’ve been enjoying the food in Cambodia. Meat, meat, meat is what the Khmer love. Rusty, dissected petrol drums at roadside stalls with the sweet aroma of burning flesh… are a common sight. Chicken and pork being the most popular and easily accessible meat.

We inherited one of these beauties with our new house and I love nothing more than going to the local market early on Saturday morning to buy fresh pork ribs; marinating them all afternoon and throwing them on for a Saturday night barbie.

Our number 2 son, Beau loves his food.

Beau having his fourth bowl of chicken soup on a school excursion to a nearby village

His teacher was so delighted by Beau’s appetite, he took many photos to prove it

Another famous Khmer dish is Fish Amok- everyone has a family recipe for this steamed fish curry, served traditionally in a banana leaf. The curry is a heady mixture of ginger, garlic, turmeric, chilli, lemongrass and galangal cooked with coconut milk.

The local Sangke River (the life force that Battambang town girdles) is home to small, tasty but bony suckers, the common fish used in the dish. On my bike ride to work every morning people often flank her banks with extra long bamboo poles trying their luck.

On Friday night we sat down at home to this delicacy. Saliva pumps started as we all took out first mouthful. Beau immediately gets a bone that he proudly pulls out of his mouth to inspect. Dad is doing the commentary to go with the show:

We don’t eat bones so put it on the side of your plate

On cue when our nearly four year old hears the word don’t , he does.

He pops the bone back in his mouth to see what will happen, he swallows. Gulp. Ahhhhhhhhh

It lodges itself in the back of his throat. Faaarrrkkkkk!

Already on my feet after the initial bone sighting, annoyed that it had slipped through the security check. I’m hugging a slobbering mess- he’s dribbling and crying (a good sign) at least he’s not turning blue and gasping. I watch as Tim and Quinn continue to keep eating. It was delicious mind you. But my stomach is in knots and I’m amazed they can do it.

Tim calls our local Aussie nurse friend who asks how big? Oh 3 cm.. but it looked thin…

We need to find a hospital and get it taken out.

I’m running around, Beau in my arms bits of fishy goop on my chest, vague thoughts of medical insurance and passports in my brain. I grab the passports but can’t find the medical insurance papers.

We all pile on the family moto. Quinn up the front between Dad’s legs. Beau and I backseat trying to console each other. He’s managing to still talk (another good sign!):

I’m gonna tell that fish bone to go away Mum.

Ok beautiful. Then he’s crying again in pain.

Not so Baby Beau

Google earth isn’t working and finding places in daylight amongst the scribbly Khmer language is a tough task. Now, with all our stress levels elevated, Tim sets off in the opposite direction. We head out along Highway 5, all madly trying to keep our wits.

I start bumble bee breath (known as ‘Omming’ and humming) just as much to calm my racing thoughts of unsterile gadgets going down Beau’s throat or contagious diseases he may never recover from. Every time I start to think I hum louder. I used this in child birth, maybe it was this memory or the moto engine but soon Beau is asleep! We are still looking in the dark for the only reputable medical centre. The others aren’t worth the risk – we stopped outside one and all the anti-hepatitis signs scared us off. Whenever the bike stops, Beau is disturbed and crying spasms start again.

So more humming later, Tim speeding and playing chicken with some trucks until I start barking at him to slow down. We finally find the right medical centre. On cue Beau MIRACULOUSLY comes to, looking refreshed from the snooze, with a

‘I’m alright Mum’

I can’t believe it so I ask him three times. I didn’t believe in God until now. I was sending some windy prayers to my dead grandfather (who I never got the pleasure to met) since it was his birthday, I thought he might be up having a party.

We enter the medical centre to get him checked out only to be sent out 5 minutes later with a

‘We don’t do throats only bones and fractures’

This centre really is exclusive! And empty, it has that sterile, pristine, rich smelling sheen, only used by foreigners or obscenely rich Cambodians. Even if it is a classist establishment, they won’t check out his gob sending us to a private ENT clinic in town. With shady directions we find the clinic closed, but the Western ice cream shop next door open.

Assessing our options, Beau still perky telling me

‘The bone’s broken Mum and gone into my foot’

Feeling somewhat put at ease by his 3.5 year old prognosis, we decide food therapy may work. We all drop into an American-esque diner booth and enjoy a sundae.

Brothers in arms

Dodging bullets is hungry work.

Schooling on the Road

Posted on October 12, 2014 by amy freya

My boys and now a bike

We decided to embark on this adventure as it would peel back the kids’ eyelids. The nitty gritty of schooling was glossed over after a web search popped up a few options.

First port of call when we arrived was checking out the French Montessori School. This was right up our alternative yet still structured alley, and in French only added another feather to its cap.

As all well laid plans or should I say imaginings often pale into a gooey stickiness of reality, we discovered that for our older son at 7, it was not Montessori method but French Classical System. At this point, a small bell rang in my head, especially upon reading the material list required a slate (!) but I pushed it aside. Our son was not showing any linguistic leanings, if anything the opposite and that’s in his mother tongue. We ploughed forward, in the face of parental schoolyard gossip about other schools ranged from:

(1) a breeding ground for colonial superiority whereby foreign cherubs get carried up the stairs

(2) equally frightening, touts sell energy drinks to kids on their way to the toilet

After week 3, Quinn was showing the strain, dark circles under his eyes even after a full night’s sleep. Each day I would probe him getting a blank expression which I imagine he’s had since morning when he began retreating into his world of go cart design and fortification building easier to understand than the banter around him.

Coming from ‘Stralia’, a second language isn’t necessary (no direct neighbours) and maybe we’re all lazy, the Board of Studies has scrapped it from the primary school curriculum altogether. Obviously there is an adjustment phase to second language acquisition and it takes some good ol’ digging deep until you can start making daisy chains out on the frontier.

In the face of Quinn requiring up to 5 afternoons of private tuition just to make some headway, I did some quiet soul poking and saw that this was my dream not his. He prefers to be drawing in his ‘creative book’ that lives under his pillow or stalking muddy puddles on his bike. It was something that the Director of the School said to us

We need to set children up to succeed

Playing to kids’ strengths to build confidence can have spin off effects in areas that niggle them. I also realised that my zeal for him to achieve may actually overshadow his happiness. And even if being well meaning and passionate about education, especially my own kids is not a bad thing, my interest now gets interpreted as pressure. I’m like a single woman’s biological clock ticking and Quinn, a confirmed bachelor.

My captive’s face says it all

Not one to let myself off easily, I probed the onion skin to see a mouldy fear still there from my school days. How the carrot and stick system is geared for little over achievers to get self gratification in every tick on the page or a teacher’s sweet smile. How I became like Pavlov’s dog hooked on praise. Look I could have got into some harder shit than teacher pleasing and studying hard, and yes I got an education, a good one and doors opened, but emotionally, all that striving only reinforced that I needed to be a try-hard.

To feel worthy.

Who knows why I felt this, lack of nurturing in childhood ? genetic makeup? sensitivity ? Maybe there is no singular reason, but recognising this as an adult, is liberating. And now as a parent, I want to take out my own trash and hopefully the stench won’t waft up Quinn’s nostrils.

Where to now? Tim and I will share the roll out of Quinn’s education. And he can go to a local school for socialisation in the afternoons. The literacy book seems to send our potential perfectionist into groans. So the other day, we decided to ditch it and head outside.

In our garden

I took a deep breath and allowed Quinn to lead me. Soon he was digging and we planted tomato, basil, rocket and parsley sent by his beloved Godmother. Soon we were on our haunches making clay men and elephants out of mud.

‘Mum and Me’

Elephant Man

It was a wonderful morning listening to the birds, making up stories to go with our creations. Quinn showed his bravery for worm wielding (they’re huge here!) and told me how that meant we have fertile soil. I feel we do sweet Quinn. And that if I learn to trust that your future will be bright, I will hold your hand and be led along into the unknown. Know that with a full heart and an open ears, I have your back as you tread your own path in life’s learning journey.

Greener Pastures

Posted on October 1, 2014 by amy freya

So for those who’ve been here since the beginning, you may remember my post about our landlords and their attitude to children, in particular noisy children.https://bangonaboutbattambang.com/2014/08/20/peace-in-paradise/

After Beau managed to put a dart through a fly screen; pull a wicker cupboard on top of him smashing the mirror on his head, beautify the wall with crayon, get trigger happy on the bum gun one too many times, we’ve parted ways. The landlords eager to find us a new place and us eager to feel like we weren’t living with our parents.

Our New Digs

According to our previous landlords, this place was just waiting for us. The owner is a judge who moved to Phnom Penh a while ago, not desperate to rent the place remained elusive. That was until our previous landlord desperate to find us a new domicile accosted her calling up to ten times a day and a deal struck.

We now live further out of town amidst paddy field green and buffalo tracks. The kids can play rough and tumble in the garden lined with 4 dragon fruit trees (large succulent sculptures), mangos, limes and passionfruit. We have an extra bedroom that’s swiftly been utilised as a kid free zone as it has a lockable door. This is where I’m shacked up to write this piece.

These beauties in our garden

The local neighbours are Khmer and have already inquisitively scoped out our joint. Quinn and Beau can be found out the front with any number of sticks or swords in action.

Goat Curry ?

These four legged friends were seen on our first bike ride to the market. The market being a cross between an abattoir, a farmer’s market, hardware store and a bargain shop. All live or not so lucky critters (eels, crabs, insects, chicken, goose, duck, pork, beef, snails, snake) and fresh vegies/fruit are rolled out on grass mats for your perusal. Best to get there early because after the sun is higher in the sky, so are the number of flies.

Quinn turned 7 this weekend. It feels like quite the milestone for all of us. He’s growing into a thoughtful, sensitive and artistic young man. He was full of home made pinata and commando course building ideas for the party. None of which actually happened…but water pistols fights and pass the parcel sufficed.

Chocolate cake! Quite a rarity

We had quite a turn out. Tim being the social broadcaster he is- invited everyone we’ve met since arriving 3 months ago. It turned into a beautiful motley crew of Khmer and Expat- from the hotel owner and porter from the Royal Hotel where we stayed when we first arrived, to our old landlords, to work colleagues, new French friends from Beau’s preschool to the entire staff from our local, backpacker bar Here Be Dragons. 8 kg of barbecued meat later and eons of coconuts, beer and sweet cakes, everyone was suitably porky. Even a souped up ice cream van Cambodia-style came who must have got the call up.

Suzuki City cum Mr Whippy

So we are adjusting to our new digs peacefully. It feels like a new chapter has begun for our time here. Whenever, I leave our walled garden and ride my bike along the country lane, I feel like I’m in a movie- the seated fishermen by the irrigation ditch with their home made fishing stick; the local jetty made out of a few pieces of bamboo easy to replace after heavy rains, smells waffing from outdoor ‘kitchens’ of the neighbouring corrugated huts.

What year is it? What century are we in?

Pchum Ben Festival

Posted on September 30, 2014 by amy freya

For 15 mornings the alarm clock has been the sounds of monks’ chanting to ghosts at the gates of Hell.

This ancestors festival is a huge celebration, second only to Khmer New Year. The monks sing all night without sleeping as the gates open ghosts reprieved from their time of purgation escape whilst other unfortunates only get a temporary leave pass but must return to more repentance. Piles of food are laid at the feet of the monks by locals to gain ‘merits’ that indirectly benefit their family dead. Some locals throw rice balls into the air via direct post leaving out the middlemen. Whatever your beliefs about your ancestors’ fate, some souls obviously made it to heaven, it is a time of celebration with all spirits, pious and devious benefiting from the attention.

Choo Choo: Waitya, Quinn, Waitya’s sister, Beau

We were invited to a friend of Quinn, Waitya’s house to stuff our faces on Cambodian cakes, a mixture of sticky rice with any combination of banana, red bean, shrimp, pork, nuts, honey, lentils, corn. We arrived to a feast of oranges and fruit, our mouths never empty, before the cakes came out…and then the curry and rice. With pants popping we managed to extract ourselves from our plastic chairs to go on a village tour to visit relatives, and eat more cakes.

Moo Cows pig out too

Our bounty of Cambodian Cakes

Keeping the cakes warm on the fire

Walking through palm fringed tracks only wide enough for motos and bicycles. Cars not a common sight.

We stumbled across the boys’ teachers house- a modest hut with the extended family all on the frontal platform. Grandma, aunts, uncles, brother, sisters, grandchildren- one being 3 year old whose parents are working as construction workers in Thailand, Grandma who looked 80 but may have been 50, taking up the slack. As I stood there, talking to his sweet teachers in Khmer English realising that just because someone speaks good enough English to get a job in a school, doesn’t mean that it is a well paid. Nor does it mean this husband and wife teacher team live in their own home. Like 40 year old virgins in our culture (that they are not, their cute daughter toddles at their heels) they live in the family home, their salary going into the communal pot.

Outside Teacher Pin and LeMong’s house

We are finding the Khmer such warmhearted people. Their generosity is without boundaries. I speak for all my boys, we feel very welcome and at home here. Even with our

Tik Tik Khmer

which means ‘I don’t speak much at all’, we get smiles at our jumbled attempts and nods of appreciation that we even try. Take away speech, body language is the radio channel and so often I find that if I initiate a smile, I get a HUGE one in return. It is easy to see that home truth in action you get back what you give out.

Boys will be….boys

Posted on September 15, 2014 by amy freya

A wise friend doing the Battambang life with kids recommended we get outta town regularly. With school holidays limping into their third month, it was definitely time.

We packed ourselves into the back of a taxi for the 3 hour drive to Siem Reap with 2 hyper boys practicing head stands on the back seat. This city is a cultural mecca being the home of the Mighty Angkor Wat and many lesser known cousins. A must see on anyone’s bucket’s list. Its ancient architecture whispers of a forgotten kingdom, patriotically kept alive in the minds of the Khmer as a time of strength and power. Even today a pulipal energy radiates as Buddhist monks still visit shrines daily keeping the spiritual fires lit.

We left the boys poolside in an innocent housekeeper’s care. All went surprisingly well, except for receiving 6 missed calls to say the kids were ravenous and needed to order pizza. Ce La Vie.

We so enjoyed the quiet togetherness. Moving away from family, you rarely get time to relax with one another, rather we tag team our breaks. And try not to bicker over who gets more sanity savers.

We are still adjusting to our new life. From other expats I’ve heard it takes up to three months to acclimatise, but from Battambang locals, who have lived the high and lows that occur on a daily basis, it is more like six months. So whatever the magical figure may be, it is where we are at right now.

The boys still in the throws of missing their friends keenly, and without school or routine AND living in a strange new world, they are emotional. Their sibling relationship showing the strain of being only friend, brother, sparking partner and side kick. Beau has regressed in his toilet training big time which may be influenced by the size of the cockroaches in our bathroom or never knowing what kind of squat, pit, hole or seatless throne may be on offer. Quinn has retreated into this fantasy world of fighting and weapons…whereby he is slaying ninjas in our street every night, and by day hitting plastic swords on a pole, or punching clothes hanging on the line.

Having two boys I’ve witnessed some aggression but it is definitely magnified at the moment. A coping mechanism?

So when Quinn got wind of the War Museum, he came alive so I acquiesced. The word was that it was a government rip off who bullied the more informative Land Mine Museum into moving premises out of town. We arrived to an open field of rusty tanks ready to attack if only they had wheels.

Friendly Staff members play with the boys

With no conservation signage, safety measures dependent on how adventurous you are, the boys clambered over the tanks like monkeys. That was until they spotted the gun exhibit- a bungalow with rows of rifles that you could freely touch.

OMG!

Quinn yells with characteristic Elvis thrusts as he strokes an AK-47, affectionately known from then as ”Gun-ji”.

Heaven on Earth

I was reminded of the gun racks in my Uncle’s bedroom at my Grandma’s farm. And how I never wanted to sleep in that room, let alone touch them.

Tim and I had the whole gun conversation early on, our consensus being no toy guns in the house. But like water wears away at stone, a wooden handcrafted (that makes a difference, right?) toy rifle slipped into Quinn’s clutches at aged 4. I can only describe the whole process as seeing an avalanche coming towards you, and deciding to calmly step out of the way. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said things about war, and what it means, and how hurting people is bad. They kinda listened the first time but now it is like trying to get your kids attention when they are glued to a screen.

So the boys were in army heaven fondling all the paraphernalia, one of the guides wanders by, I smile and say:

‘My boys love guns. I tell them war is bad’, looking defeated.

As the sky changes to yellow, the same guide returns beer in hand. We are still in the hut, hours gone. I’m scrawling in my notebook, snatching precious time, the boys still enthralled.

He gestures to the boys and tells me I’m a good mother for letting my sons go.

‘Your boys ok, they come from you, they will be good, you must believe that. ‘

Maybe I’m easily flattered, or enjoy validation whenever I can get it, but I was touched by his words. With linguistic limitations and a traditionally patrilocal culture, you don’t get too many conversations with blokes on any deep level.

He continues:

‘I loved guns as a boy. I play with his father’s gun and make him worry. Then at 13, I join the Khmer Rouge, for 14 years’

As a boy soldier for a notoriously brutal regime, he saw what no person, let alone child should ever have to witness.

I lose everything. All my family dead. I see war. Not good. You tell your children that.’

Do you have kids I ask?

’After war, I want for nothing. I become drunk guy’.

With that he’s gone, raising his bottle in a quick salute. And I’m left in that space where someone’s shared a part of themselves that leaves a mark.

As the sky turns to pink, I touch the sleek cold metal of a M-16, feel its secrets and know its been used for real, not just in boys’ war games. And I promise to keep sowing the seeds for love and peace in my little soldiers’ hearts. Teaching compassion for all things, and dropping those crumbs hoping that my boys will always know that it is wrong to hurt others. Maybe it was unwise to let them covet these weapons. But watching Quinn I get a sense of his own dad as a child, who wanted to join the army but has never been in a fight.

I can’t change where their present passions lie, only trust that by allowing them to explore them, they will tire of them and move on, hopefully with equal zeal but less violence. I’ve seen those kids deprived of television, who once they see one, have no self control or discretion, they watch shopping channels verbatim.

I don’t vouch to know what I’m doing most of the time, but raising boys is like a biology lesson. Neither Tim nor I encourage violence. I teach yoga and enjoy Buddhist philosophy. What I’ve been working on is acceptance of my self, no matter what to stay soft and listening. And I’m realising this extends to my kids.

Moving the Family to Cambodia

Posted on August 25, 2014 by amy freya

We commonly get asked, why Cambodia, and how can you do it? So i’ll answer these curlies in this post.

Family Selfie at the Airport

I stumbled upon a blog about an American family who moved to Mexico (www.revolutionfromhome.com)
at the beginning of their journey, and it was a source of encouragement and insight into how it is possible, even with parasitic bouts and tired, resistant children, and the joys and growth all involved shared. It was possible with kids!

But of course, the seed was planted a lot longer ago..

It started with a conversation… Tim and I had about living overseas with kids. I’d always been fond of the idea, especially as I’d spent a year living in Beijing as 21 year old. I arrived green, as part of an Australian government initiative that sends young Aussies across Asia-Pacific to immerse themselves in local culture, share some Australisms and impart their professional knowledge. What a 21 year old thinks they know professionally and what they do, is oceans apart. I had much free time that involved cruising the Foreign Students College making friends with folk from all parts of the globe. Many students were from Russia (pop across a big long border) and Columbia (I met one wealthy kid whose parents realised that it was safer getting educated in China rather than hijacked for ransom in their own town). Even though I had an arsenal of contacts in this strange new world if I needed them, it was still like landing on the moon. It was 2001, and few local Chinese spoke English. I was soon lured into local Primary schools to teach conversational English. Visions of delivering my final uni thesis presentation in broken stutters still fresh in my mind. I think the only thing I achieved in these classes was convincing one 6 year old kid who had chosen the English name of Tomato, that it was a winner as it never ceased to have me in fits of giggles.

Maybe the coconut never falls far from the palm. Once I was out of nest, the poop not even dry, my mum set off on an intrepid backpacker adventure even though she was nearing fifty, from Kathmandu to London inside an old Bedford truck. Once there, she stayed eights years, doing itinerant work between gathering new stamps in her passport and regular visits to her Bedouin lover in Jordan.

And so after years of watering the idea from our Umina suburbian backyard with its dog and two babies later, my dearest Tim decided,

Ok, I’d give it a crack

Green light go, we rented our beach shack to a beautiful young family, escaping city living with dreams of having a pooch and more chicks in their brood.

We were lucky to know of a reputable NGO, a young team of dedicated individuals trying to implement international best practice in social welfare. Supporting over 150 students, they provide income support, training, health care and education to children and their families. Importantly, they are trying to keep the family unit strong and together. Also, they understand intrinsically the role that Westerners should play in skills sharing and ultimately handing over management to the Khmers. We are self funded volunteers and loving the nature of this work. We were able to offer our skills, as artist, all-round handy man, yoga devotee and educator. I have also been approached by local expats to run yoga classes, so a little in the can will help.

One of Tim’s sculptures, recycled steel

There is always a lot of conjecture over children’s education. As the next wave of knock kneed kids reach the playground, more theories pop up about how kids learn, how they can learn better, faster, quicker, even though the brain still remains somewhat of a black box. Personally, I was shaped strongly by my education, and my adult years have been somewhat a period of unschooling. So after recognising the whole disruption to our Grade 1 son’s schooling the move would cause, we decided it was still valuable. If anything, we were heartened by this ideal that maybe he would actually gain more through life experience rather than sight words.

That being said, I came armed with helpful hints from his teachers, and again, idealistic visions of being a cool grammar teacher (yup I am a foxy moron). It hasn’t quite gone to plan. We probably average 10 minutes a day, with Quinn honing his debating skills on why he can’t sit down, I try for calm without resorting to bribery and fail on both counts. If there are jobs going for illiterate lawyers, he’s sure to do well.

So we made it, fumbling our way through and grateful to have this opportunity. We are going to milk it and give it a real hard shake!

Peace in Paradise

Posted on August 20, 2014 by amy freya

Meet Beau

I made a promise to myself, and my readers to write honestly about the good times, and the harder. There is often that feeling that writing about potentially negative stuff isn’t what people want to read. But being real, is just that.

We are in our eighth week of settling into our new home. We are all feeling emotional as we navigate new territory, trying to establish a connection with a place, and its people.

We miss our family, friends, school and little shrines of familiarity. My whizbag, jelly foam pillow that miraculously has a memory, to cherish all the hours we’ve spent together.

Quinn misses his top bunk haven with its secret compartment hidden from his brother’s tenacious, prying fingers. Here, the 2 brothers share a double bed, one mosquito net and numerous cuddles or wrestles depending on their romantic mood.

Tim misses his tools. and his man cave made out of a converted shipping container. Far enough down the garden path, and nestled into oleander, to give him much needed solace and privacy. Not a dude to ever frequent our local Umina pub, this space, for both artistic pursuits and thinking time, is his temple.

Beau being the most rambunctious of our lot, and the youngest, seems quite content, being a toddler mutant ninja turtle, as long as his family are within earshot. But even he is showing signs of mild distress, mainly I feel through soaking up our frustrations.

We are all a noisy, vibrant bunch. Putting it positively, we are gregarious. But now we live within a compound, with our landlords and another foreigner, a British guy with a demanding job overseeing the removal of all landmines across Cambodia. He is often away in Angola. But he isn’t showing much paternal penchance and is more interested in Asian women.

Our landlords, have worked hard in the US, leaving in 1980 in the aftermath of the Khmer Rouge, Tong worked as a security guard and Pheak, his wife in an electronics factory, her job was to put the battery part into the ubitiquitious ceiling fan. After 22 years of being migrants in another culture, and working 6 days a week 12 hours a day, they decided to return to their homeland. They had saved enough to buy a big house and live out the rest of their days in peace. They are examples of the resilient spirit that many Cambodians, and migrants world over exhibit. I stand in the face of this story, humbled by privilege and a fanciful nature, that has been able to grow wild in my garden of fortunity.

So there is a big adjustment by all parties in this microcosm. Our children make noise, bouncing a ball and squealing as they ride their bikes. Yes they are loud, and surely improvements can be made, but they are also children. Tim likes to play his guitar, it is a lifeline soothing a deep thinking, sensitive soul. He has been asked to play quietly and not outside at night.

And then there are my actions. It is time for one of those self reflecting mamma moments. You know those times when you see, are forced to look, at how yes, I’ve been yelling a bit too much. Possibly it starts as a reaction to the kids’ continual chatter, I have to raise a few decibels to be heard. But it is also wielded as a tool upon deaf ears with…no effect. So the cycle begins, ends and continues.

I’ve been coping with the change, with the kids lack of friends and subsequent boredom, by resorting to the comfort of cooking. Cutting up onions and discovering new herbs, has become a relaxing pastime for me. But ironically, whilst I’m enjoying the aromas of fried garlic, the kids are running amok in the courtyard. And my lack of supervision is seen as neglectful. Yesterday during a particularly large downpour, a welcome relief to the heavy cloak of heat of past few days, Quinn and Beau were delighting in waterfalls coming off the roof. Quinn then decides to start riding the downpipe like a horse, the end breaking off. Tong seeing all of this, needless to say wasn’t happy. It is fixable. But the point has been made, that I can’t control my kids, and Tong is worried they will hurt themselves one day. That very morning, Beau was trying to lift up the water pump cover. His curious fingers could have met with 240volts.

We’ve had a family meeting with the kids about ‘out of bound’ areas and respecting other people’s stuff. It is a learning curve. A life lesson for living in a society with others. Quinn at nearly seven gets it. Beau at three, was thinking about the zombies that live in the blue house up the street.

This parenting gig is HARD. Even when you want to escape to places in your imagination or hide in the linen press, they require your attention. Quinn amazed me with his insights- I asked him how should I tone down my yelling- ‘mum, I could post signs up all around the house for you?’. Bingo. Reminscient of a movement called Orange Rhino ( http://theorangerhino.com) that I discovered then forgotten about back in Oz. A great exercise in consciously trying to change your behaviour and getting your kids to help.

I just want to salute all the parents out there. A difficult job without a manual, and this generation of parents are steering into unchartered waters. Without child labour, industrial revolution and corporal punishment as a basis for discipline, societal pressures and occupying kids’ time, how things have dramatically changed over the last century.

Has anyone noticed how joyful and well behaved your kids are when you give them time and your undivided attention?

Always a juggling act.

Trapped in an Elevator

Posted on August 13, 2014 by amy freya

The whole overseas experience is an interesting one.

It is a bit like getting trapped in an elevator, long enough to have moments of claustrophobic fears and sensory deprivation, that you bond firmly with all involved from shared experience.

I had a good laugh at myself, when I rounded a corner this week on my bicycle, out of the corner of my eye, the upstairs computer scanned ‘ALERT, possible English speaking boys’.

I literally shouted ‘Are you travellers?’ while making a beeline for them. Whereby their mum responded ‘No, we live here’. I leapt off the bike mid sentence. Me too. We should be friends.

Commandos in action

Later that very day, the newly formed commando gang were testing out their survival skills on the security gate, and a kindly security guard!

Annie, their mother and I have much in common:

simply by sharing the same language (they are from the U.K.);
the fact that we both have boys (I don’t like being stereotypical but there is a mutual bonding between little ninja mothers, they get the insurmountable amount of energy, the weapon obsession, and the feisty ‘I’m going to bite your head off’ talk)
to top it off our eldest boys share a birthday. So let our forces unite, planned festivities have begun. Phew, Annie knows where to buy an ice cream cake. We better buy a few in this heat.

I wanted to mention a bit more about sensory deprivation. The pace is really much slower.

Getting OCD and liking it

As I said, we took away the telly as an experiment. It is all going well- they still have access to limited DVD use – and the negotiated minefield that presents, but at least the box isn’t in their faces as a constant reminder. So we play cards! We line them up and see the pretty patterns they make. To be honest, boys lost interest and left me to it.

Quinn got crafty with his own self directed project.

‘Where’s the Bull?’ – Recycled polystyrene 2014

We’ve been thinking about recycling. All the stuff we have on tap at home. Not always stuff you have to buy, but stuff we can rustle up in the useful box (craft box of tit bits) without too much work. Well, here, I am noticing how resourceful people are. Their access to materials (for buildings, furniture, mechanics, tools) is of such a limited supply and quality. So the kids and I are collecting what we can find, a pretty ribbon in the street, cardboard box turns into a lego container. Milk carton, a home for pot plants.

We are also making stuff for the house. Everything you buy is often plastic crap that doesn’t last under the Wilson-Hall wear and tear. Nor, do we like spending pennies on it.

Now, handymen are sexy, look at what Tim rustled up in a flash:

Guitar installation

And then, thanks to my darling pixie friend Peita, I got this idea whilst exercising the boys in local park at sun up. I spent an enjoyable afternoon doing this:

‘Peas in a pod’ : Seed pods, fishing twine 2014

Let’s have a craft in, any pictures of your homemade creations welcome.

Here’s to slowing down and getting brain quiet through working with your hands. Isn’t that what we’ve all been doing for millennia?

Bang On About

Category Archives: Travel