| Leaving the tourist trail. Kampot. Posted Sunday, 15 October 2006 | ||
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| Somehow we managed to prize ourselves off the beach and away from the hawkers selling delicious cooked lobsters for a dollar. But Kampot beckoned, a town somewhat off the tourist track warranting barely half a page in the book of lies – the Lonely Planet. Transport had just about petered out so we did the only sensible thing and took a four hour cab ride. But with four sharing it was barely US$4 each and it was like having a chauffeur. The child on the driver’s lap, I guess, got a free ride. The beat up Toyota Corolla left the relative tourist metropolis of Sihanoukville and sped down red dusty roads, the plume of smoke in its wake engulfing passing cyclists, wandering cows and goat herders. We crossed a half stone, half metal bridge (never fully repaired from the war) and entered sleepy Kampot. OK, so it had the odd guesthouse but tourists were still a novelty. How do I know why? Because there was not one beggar in the town. In Phnom Penh we were waving off one legged postcard sellers and yet here not a peep. Not that the locals weren't fascinated though. Wendy crashed out in the room after our bumpy ride so I decided to head out, on my lonesome, and discover Kampot. By the river young Khmers threw stones into the water; in the markets it was all go with boxes of Omo washing powder, huge vegetable stalls and meat just lying on slabs with flies’ dive bombing it. All along the streets were old French terraces, their paintwork fading and shutters broken. And every kid would shout ‘hello’ at me. I would say ‘hello’ back and there our common lexicon ended until I said “bye bye!”, “Bye bye!” they excitedly replied waving to me. Until, that was, a man in his late twenties said “Hello”, and followed it with, “Are you from England because if you are maybe you could help me my class plans?” Throwing caution to the wind I let Mr. Hung lead me into his house. I walked into a massive room with orange walls and a black and white chessboard floor. A small raised wooden stage stood next to a table and a television flickered from high on a cupboard. Old pictures of dead relatives (they may actually have been dead when the picture was taken) stared down at me and a motorbike was parked in the middle of the room helping with the whole garage ambiance. An older man with white whiskers, smiling, with few teeth came towards me with an offering of a chili and salt covered lychee. And so began my English teaching mini-adventure. Two days later (and after going back with Doug the next day for more lychees and English class plans), Wendy, Karen, Doug and I turned up at the school. Wooden tables looked towards a raised platform and a massive blackboard where we wrote our names. This time the pictures that stared down at us were off the New King, Old King and Old Queen. Children who couldn’t afford the US$3 fee peered in at the windows. All the pupils had copies of an Oxford English workbook. They had to listen to the tape and answer questions on the life of two American millionaires – one was stingy millionaire and made her dog eat restaurant scraps, the other was a philanthropist. The only problem, however, was they had no cassette player. So, in turns, the four of us did the talking parts. Then we had to pick on the students (ages 10–20) and ask questions. Finally, we would sit among them whilst they asked us questions like: “Do you have a wife?”, “No. Umm. Not yet.” Shocked look. “No! I would think you have a wife by now.” “Yes. Yes. Moving on.” Mr. Hung obviously liked me as he made me speak the most. But then Karen was Belgian so learning English from someone with a Flemish accent could be a challenge. That night Mr. Hung had dinner with us. We noticed that while he was grammatically tip top when it came to English he actually couldn’t express himself in conversation all that well. The waiter, one of his pupils, probably didn’t know his past participle from his present perfect, but he could chat away with aplomb. He would say, in his slow measured voice; “So, Wendy? What’s a girl like you doing in a town like this?” Hilarious laughter from foreigners ensues while Mr. Hung looks just bemused. Being a waiter had trained this boy well. Mr. Hung enquired about how he might get a visa to Australia and if we could find him a job. But there our help ended. Knowing how illiberal Australia are with a boat loads of Afghani refugees, I feared they weren’t about to allow a well-meaning English teacher from woop woop Cambodia into the country. | ||
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