Class of 2000 |
Lindsay Crysler |
|
The Graduates
Bonnie Allen
Larry Todd Jim McKenzie Roy Bonisteel Patricia Bell Wendy Tebb Lindsay Crysler Renee Pellerin |
Current LocationAs of July 1, 2002Sudbury, Ontario Email: crysler@ns.sympatico.ca Posted on June 7, 2002 by Lindsay CryslerFirst, congratulations to Karen and hubby. I chuckled when I read her description of her new life ... showering, etc., in 12 minutes; four hours to get ready for a one-hour outing. Sounds so familiar ... long ago, but familiar ... and a wonderful time of life. As some of you know, I was in Regina in March for a funeral. I managed to sneak a lunch with Wendy Tebb and Regan, and my son and I spent a great evening at Bushwhackers with Dave Freeman, Regan and her man. Sorry we did not catch more of you ... next time. I was in Ottawa for the Michener Awards in Journalism in early May and encountered the delightful Ms. Renée Tratch and her entourage at Rideau Hall. She was shepherding the press corps to their appointed places and generally keeping them in line. She looks great and is obviously enjoying her job ... it's great surroundings to work in. Otherwise we are focussing on the move; we'll be in Sudbury by July 1. Just a bit of cleaning up here and some unpacking at the other end. So, should you be passing through anytime in the next few years .... 179 John St.; (705) 675-2276. Take care all, and have a happy summer.
Posted on December 20, 2001 by Lindsay CryslerI've just been catching up with the class news, and figured it was time to provide my own update. My class -- Feature Writing -- is finished for the term, and I won't be teaching next term, so I can concentrate on getting ready for Santa. We had a nice year, including a trip to southern France, driving from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic across the face of the Pyrénées ... lovely country, warm sunshine and some nice wine. Later in summer, my daughter and family moved back to Saudi Arabia; I never minded when it was just her going off, but now she takes my three-year-old grandson -- that's a harder blow. My stepson began journalism studies at NYU ... about five days before Sept. 11, which was pretty much the first story he wrote. He went to New York because he figured it would be exciting ... he got a bit more than he bargained for. The recent highlight of my year was a small dinner in Toronto Dec. 9 at which Judy and I were joined by about a dozen former students, about 9-10 from Concordia, one from King's and the lovely pride of Eastend, Ms. Kristen Higgins. It was really wonderful to see them, but it was all too short. Subsequently, I've seen the "ongoing discussion" at this site, and wished I could offer some sage advice to my young friends. However, like Bonnie Allen, I pretty much was always doing something I wanted to do ... whether writing, editing or teaching. It doesn't mean it was always without pain, but I did not revile it. So far, I think Karen and Kim have given the best advice: you cannot always love what you do, but you can at least like it; also ... decide what you would really like to be doing, and do it. The so-called dark side doesn't really exist --- the best journalist in Nova Scotia has just gone to work with the government information service because he believes passionately in a project they are undertaking ... the cleaning up of the Sydney steel plant's tar ponds. I have former students working in PR/information in government, universities, hospitals, and even corporations, from Saskatchewan to Toronto, Montreal and Nova Scotia ... and they find they can do their job without compromising their integrity. We are getting ready for Christmas without family this year, so we'll have some foreign students around for some North American tradition. We are also excited by longer term events ... my wife, Judith Woodsworth, has just been appointed president of Laurentian University, a post she'll take up next July 1. So, next time you're driving past Sudbury ... don't: drop by for a coffee or a nice cold beer. I hope your all have a fulfilling and Happy New Year.
Posted on July 14, 2001 by Lindsay CryslerThanks again for keeping up the site. It is great to hear how people are doing, and disappointing that reports from some are so infrequent. We are now settled in for the rest of the summer. We were 2½ weeks in southern France, where we had a busy, but relaxing, time. We started at Toulouse -- a very vibrant city -- then travelled from the Mediterranean across the face of the Pyrenées to the Atlantic coast, mostly poking around small towns perched on hillsides or tucked into lush green valleys. We met very many warm, friendly, wonderful people -- unlike those un-Nice people that Renée ran into. We even visited Montréal --- one of about five in southern France (this one, population about 2,000, was in the Aude region). We saw lots of soaring churches, crenellated castles, 800-year-old walled cities, and swam on a lovely soft sand beach where France meets Spain. One day we went climbing a mountain in southwest France, le Pays Basque; we were about 100 feet from the top ... and looked back: Nothing ... cloudy mist had rolled in and we could not see where we had been, or that there was anything in the world besides us standing on this nice green hillside in a cloudy swirl. Judy and I turned back ... stepson Michael and his friend, who had joined us for a few days, continued up and on, showing up back at the B&B about five hours later. We just returned from Saskatoon, where we celebrated my mom's 90th birthday ... about three parties over a week ... and got to visit some old school friends, some of whom I have not seen for about 30 years. Sorry to the Saskatoon gang for not connecting, but it was a busy time ... (and they never answer my e-mails anyway). My daughter and family, who have been here for the past year, are heading back to Saudi, so grandpa is a bit grumpy about losing his only grandson once again. I will be teaching at King's again in the Fall -- Feature Writing, of course. I believe I get the winter off, so more time for curling, which I took up again in the U. Regina league. My wife and I were on the winning rink in the Spring 'spiel at the club; we were very good ... but we also lucked into having one of the best young skips in the club, and I believe he also made a few shots. Happy summer to all ... and write!
Posted on April 11, 2001 by Lindsay CryslerAttached is a bit of travelogue I wrote for my family when I returnedlast week from Samoa. Yes, I know ... you guys think I do nothing but loll around in warm places, but this was work ... kind of. I did do some work, but I also managed to visit a couple of warm sandy beaches, view some south seas culture and ... climb a mountain.... to whit: Up in the clouds with RLS . . . a walk in the woods, or getting high in Samoa I mentioned before that Robert Louis Stevenson spent his final years (1889-1894) in Samoa, and had built a rambling two-storey wooden house on the forested hillside below Mt. Vaea. When he died, the villagers of Vailima chopped through the forest for 24 hours straight so his body could be buried near the summit, as he had wished. There he was placed, looking out over the sharp-backed green mountains and the silver-blue sea, spreading out to the horizon, 400 metres below. It is a popular outing for energetic locals and tourists to climb to the grave site to take in the view that captured his heart. I had good intentions of doing so during my three weeks there, but seemed never to get around to it: I had been warned that you must set off in the cool of day's first light, or not at all. That seemed sensible, since just walking down the street seemed a chore on some of the hot sunny days, as the humidity seemed to be ever in the high 90s. Then I met Rolph Davis, president of the Canadian environmental research company that is over-seeing some of Canada's environmental studies work in the Pacific islands. He is a bird man - not just a bird-watcher, which he certainly is, but an ornithologist, with a particular knowledge of Arctic birds. Like all such people, he never met a bird he didn't like, whether on the frosty tundra of the Mackenzie Valley and the Aleutian archipelago or a steamy jungle mountainside in the South Pacific. Since it was his first visit to that part of the world, he was particularly keen to check out the latter. So, he proposed that we head out for the mountain early on our final Saturday morning, the day before we were to leave the island. We met at the front door of the hotel at 6 a.m. just as the sun was peering over the horizon - or would have done if there had not been a heavy overcast of cloud, with a thin drizzle dampening the pavement. We inquired of the young doormen whether it was going to really rain, or let up soon. They replied that it would soon stop - but did so without much conviction. So, I opined that while it might be raining lightly here at the harbourside of Apia, it was likely clear and dry up at the foot of the mountain, a 12-minute cab ride away. I was an expert, of course, having spent the past three weeks working out of an office at the foot Mt. Vaea, about a quarter mile from the footpath that leads the peak. We had often observed that not only was the temperature about four degrees cooler than downtown, the air seemed generally drier, and the sky could often be relatively clear when it was pelting rain in the city. Thus informed, we hopped in a cab and headed for the hills. The cabbie dropped us off in a small botanical garden about 200 yards from the Stevenson house, which was hidden by the thicket of rain forest that surrounded the small clearing. The garden was just alive with little birds flitting back and forth, and chirping and tweeting - a signal for the bird watcher to whip out his binoculars and begin scanning the forest, each twig and branch now seeming positively frantic with activity ... or, was it the breeze causing those leaves to tremble so? He saw lots of movement, of course, and caught sight of a few feathers, but in the faint early light could determine nothing of colour or size or species. While he stepped gingerly among the tress and shrubs, I studied the map of the trails, and picked my way along the early part of the route, whose meanderings - despite the map - were not always obvious to the newcomer. It was slow going. I made a few false starts, in which I found a pretty little waterfall - the clear water tumbled over smooth rocks for a drop of about six feet into a small crystal pool before spilling further down the gentle slope. But the trail did not lead there. I finally found what seemed a partly-worn path lined with small stones, and followed it to a two-plank footbridge over the stream. As I was about to cross, I turned around - I was alone: the birdwatcher was still slinking among the shrubs and bushes of the botanical garden, pursuing his elusive feathered friends. I waited for him to catch up - a pattern that was repeated constantly throughout our climb. I'd walk on up the trail, realize I was unaccompanied, and pause to wait for him to catch up. He'd be scanning the forest canopy for sight of some of the many birds we could hear - particularly a chorus of what seemed like hundreds of doves, whose cacophony of cooing made a marvellous symphony on the hillside. He was pretty much oblivious to the fact he was often alone - but perhaps a birdwatcher is never alone anyway. When this happened several times in the first few minutes of the trek, I said silently to myself, "this is going to be a pain in the ass." But it wasn't. After a few encounters with some feathery flitting in nearby bushes, I, too, began to pause and check the shrubs, catching a glimpse of colour or a bird-like shape from time to time. In this manner we made our way slowly up the hill, having chosen the "long" route - reputed to be 90 minutes - over the obviously steeper 30-minute version. About half way into our journey, we could hear the rain beginning to fall, and it soon became quite steady. But we were mainly dry. It was an unusual experience: we could hear the rain as it fell steadily on the canopy of the hillside forest, but only occasionally could a solitary drop be felt on the skin. It was obvious the rain did penetrate the leafy roof at times, because the trail was quite damp and slippery in places, the result of earlier rains. The long trail featured some sharp rises in elevation interspersed with many long flatter stretches as it wound its way around the mountain. It was narrow in places, with the drop down the hill being quite sharp, but nothing resembling a cliff-edge precipice. Mainly the slope was quite gentle and there were lots of trees and branches to grab if one were to slip off the trail. But it was hot and sticky work, partly from the rain and overcast and partly from our sweaty exertions as we slipped and stumbled over damp rocks and roots that both formed and deformed the trail. At one point, Rolph - resting from a brief struggle up a steep incline - lamented, "I guess I was born to be an Arctic birder - no heat, no trees, and you can see for miles on the tundra." After an hour or so of such travel, we came upon a rather flat clearing with a lovely view out over the city's northeastern suburbs toward the ocean. Below we could see a rather large compound, which it was easy to speculate was a school or religious institution, since the island was littered with them. Beyond was a golf course cut into the forest, and a few houses tucked among the trees. There also was a small, lightly-coloured rainbow - and we were standing about 200 feet above it. A few steps along the path I came upon a large fat pine cone, quite dried out and beginning to open. I looked up to find the source of this wonder, and beheld three slim evergreens with wispy foliage, more like cypress than pine - looking quite foreign here on this mountaintop, surrounded by large-leafed palms of coconut and banana, and similar greenery you'd expect in a south seas forest. Another half hour of fairly steading walking brought us closer to our goal, as we could see the summit of the mountain looming about 80 feet above us. As we made our way through lighter bush, I could hear the happy laughter of children and marvelled at the wonder of acoustics that could bring the sounds of the valley up to us so clearly. Suddenly I stepped through a ring of trees . . . into a bright clearing with a stepped grassy knoll on which the concrete catafalque of the great writer dominated the immediate scene. Another step took me up the slope to a wonderful view of the neighbouring mountain peaks, jagged clumps of green forming a spiny backbone to the landscape that rolled across the horizon and stopped abruptly at the edge of a silver-blue shimmering sea. It was all quite idyllic and peaceful - or would have been if we had not stepped into the boisterous presence of about two dozen cub scouts and their leaders, who had just clambered up the short trail. The boys were laughing and cavorting around the clearing, as boys will, until, as we came into view, the leaders lined them up along the edge of the knoll and they gave their salutes and recited their pledges, and yelled their yells - and I snapped some photos of them silhouetted against that silvery seascape. The trip up had taken only an hour and 20 minutes, rather quick considering how many times we stopped to spot a dove, or investigate with binoculars some flitting movement in the branches. After sitting around on the tomb for a few minutes, we started back down - Rolph by the long route while I ventured on the short one - much steeper and a bit slipperier after the rains, but definitely shorter as I was back at the little valley stream in 30 minutes. Thanks to the binoculars and Rolph's rain- and sweat-soaked bird book, we did identify some of our finds: a Samoan Whistler, whose clear Oriole-like notes were frequently heard as we climbed; Samoan Fantails, a pair of which danced ostentatiously among the nearby low branches as I walked along the path, obviously too close to a nest for their taste; a female Cardinal Honeyeater; and some white-winged terns wheeling over the forests below when we reached the top. While resting beside the tomb, I spotted some flashes of green whip across the clearing and into the trees - we speculated it was the Blue-headed Lorikeet, Samoa's only parakeet-type bird. When we got back to the valley, there were some Golden Plovers and Common Rails picking up grubs on the vast lawn in front of the Stevenson house, now a museum ... and the brilliantly-coloured male Cardinal Honey-eater - crimson body and black wings - perched saucily on a shrub about 15 feet from us as we rested on a bench on the great verandah. About halfway up the hill, my stomach had started to growl, reminding me we had not had breakfast, and that I had not brought anything for a snack. However, the heat and the strenuous climb caused the hunger pangs to abate, and we felt tired and hot but quite good when we got to the bottom. As we headed back to the hotel and contemplated breakfast, Rolph said, "actually, a beer would really go good right now." As we walked through the lobby, I remembered that, indeed, I had at least two cold beers in my room fridge, and volunteered them. I also discovered the remainder of a tin of mixed nuts, so, as the clock moved from 10:30 toward 11 a.m., there we sat in my room enjoying a thirst-quenching breakfast - cold beer and nuts, a first for me. As we did, we replayed our adventure, agreeing that the view had been magnificent - undoubtedly the inspiration for the requiem the sickly poet penned for himself, etched in bronze on that concrete grave:
Under the wide and starry sky At the end of a life wracked by tuberculosis, he found his nirvana at age 44 - there on that hill.
Posted on March 1, 2001 by Lindsay CryslerI just finished six weeks producing a weekly paper with my King's class ... very intense, and a very good time ... but I will not miss the 7 a.m. Thursdays (production day). The students had a good run. We broke several local stories during our time ... all were picked up by the dailies later. The Herald followed up one story a full week after we ran it ... and still put it on page one. It seems I will be off to the South Pacific shortly to check on an intern I have been working with. This is the trip that got postponed last year by the coup in Fiji. Now, I am going to Samoa ... so keep your fingers crossed. I am still curling ... at least I retained something from U. of R. I enjoy hearing how everyone is doing, so keep up the good work, Chad. Bring in those MIAs. I know I am getting old when I learn ... if Ken goes to the Journal he will be working FOR one of my first journalism students at Concordia, and WITH a kid I met on my first day in Winnipeg, about 46 years ago this week. Take care all.
Posted on November 13, 2000 by Lindsay CryslerIt was good to see Jill's news ... and her brilliant analysis of what's wrong with CBC regional TV --- they don't care about it in TO, so send in other people who don't care about the regions to report on them. Self-fulfilling prophecy. Me? ... not much new since I last reported. The school year moves inexorably on, as it is wont to do. I am being drawn deeper into the vortex of King's -- I've been named ("elected" would be too strong a word) chair of the Journalism School's ADvisory Board: a group of industry people, mainly managing editors of Atlantic dailies and exec. producers or managers of radio / TV news operations. My wife and I are curling again -- I did bring something back from REgina. I proudly wear my UofR jacket when on the ice. The experience has confirmed my view of 40 years that curlers are the nicest people on the sports beat -- and maybe the friendliest in town, any town.
Posted on September 14, 2000 by Lindsay CryslerJust a bit of an update: I am back at school, teaching Feature Writing this Fall to 3rd year students (2nd year of Journalism). 14 students -- but not a Caper in the bunch, Chad. In Winter, I will supervise the newspaper workshop for grads and 4th years. Happy news on the family front: my daughter and family moved here from Saudi Arabia -- a bit of a change. She is teaching ESL at local language school. Big bonus for grandpa -- a 2½-year-old boy to chase around the hillside, feeding the bluejays, watching the osprey wheeling over the cove... and seeing the great long Canada-bound freight trains snaking along the rocky sides of the bay. My daughter lives in Dartmouth, walks to the ferry, then walks 10 minutes on the Halifax side to work ... revelling in the fact she doesn't have to go about in 45-degree weather with a heavy black abbaya covering her body, a-la-Saudi.
Posted on July 31, 2000 by Lindsay CryslerI was in Cambodia Penh for a month, teaching a Journalism course at Royal University of Phnom Penh. One of the first journalism students I ever hired, now a foreign correspondent, came as a guest speaker, and joined me and my family for some sight-seeing... sights and sounds of Phnom Penh... The day begins early here ... a good reason to get to bed in good time. About 5:30 a.m., the peddlers calling out their wares begin their procession down the street. The vocal advertising is particularly effective on a street like ours, which is quite narrow -- two Hondas could just pass but nothing bigger. It seems the first each day is a man with a lovely voice that is soft, but carries up the street with the great resonance, with a long droning call ... "aam pan-paan ..." He is followed soon after by a woman with a sharper, shriller voice ... calling "Aiaiai–ah" – which gives you quite a jolt if you happen to be sleeping. The man with the mellifluous voice sells bread ... his call is a corruption of the French "pain". His bread, wonderfully fresh, sells for 300-500 riels (about 8-12 cents US), and comes still warm from the huge basket at the back of his large tricycle. He pedals a lot of miles for eight cents ... and what does the baker make? The shrill-voiced woman, who pushes a barrow affair, collects people’s junk – plastic bottles, old pieces of metal, just about anything – and resells it for pennies, a tough way to earn a buck. From time to time another young woman walks by balancing a large round basket of what look like sweet buns on her head. One morning, as I waited for my ride to school, I heard one of the female hawkers crying by ... "ayayay ai!" ... in a sharp clear voice. I stepped out as she receded down the street -- a tall, slim woman balancing a very wide round basket on her head with such grace, swinging along with a swaying motion in rubber flip-flops, looking almost regal as she sidestepped the little potholes and small puddles left by last night's rain as she ambled down the laneway. As she disappeared round the corner, a woman carrying a long pole with baskets at either end came into view. She had a round, coolie-type straw hat, and carried that pole so lightly on her shoulder, you'd think it was a feather – but it was obviously loaded, as she stopped to feed some customers at a gateway down the street. She doled out what looked like a heap of rice from one of her baskets, and some steaming vegetables from the other, and deposited it in bowls that her customers proffered. I expect her clientele are the gatemen and watchmen who sleep in a hammock-type bed under the portico of each yard at night ... and seem to be gambling at cards and checker-type games at one gateway or another during the day ... or in the sharp glare-white fluorescent light of one of the gateways in the early evening. --------- I was waiting for my course director to drive me school the first morning and when I opened the gate, he was there on his motorcycle ... not his car. So .... the next time I am stuck in what Halifax thinks is a traffic jam, I will remember whizzing through the streets to university and return on the back of a small motorcycle -- accompanied by several hundred cars, a few hundred bicycles, many dozens of pedicabs and many, many, many thousands of motor scooters and motorcycles -- carrying anywhere from one to four people. Every intersection at 7:15 a.m. looks like the Place de la Concorde at 9 p.m. on a Paris evening. I use that analogy because you can see that the folks here learned to drive from the French. The reason for the plethora of motorbikes is, of course, that they provide cheap transportation, and are widely used as quick and cheap taxis ... but also the city has almost no public transit system. So you can imagine how many thousands ... a million or so, maybe ... who have to make their way to work and school each day on their own. There are old ladies going to market, smartly-dressed office girls, students and all kinds of variations of workingmen on their way to the daily grind. You see motorbikes carrying whole families: mom, dad and a kid or two (and one day: dad, two small tots, and mom breast-feeding a third while balanced daintily side-saddle on the back seat). Every street at 7 a.m. is jammed with traffic ... just when you think that every vehicle in Phnom Penh is on the road ahead of you, or coming at you the other way ... you look down a side street and see a further horde choking the thoroughfare for as far as the eye can see. As you approach a major intersection (few have lights or traffic cops), you see this great congestion of vehicles going at right angles to you, without any space to spare. Now, you know you are going to go through that ... but as you contemplate it ... you have no idea how the hell you can. - - - - - - - - - - One day, I went to lunch at a little grass shack sitting on a platform on stilts above the Mekong river. I proposed to Kim Seng, our local manager, that I take him for lunch. He said "yes, I have to meet some guys, and then we'll have lunch." So we took off for a local spot, and he found the guys were off in the suburbs, and we drove out to this riverside restaurant -- a very generous description. The "rooms" are platforms on stilts, some on the bank, and some hanging over the river ... no walls; each room has a couple of hammocks made of coarse rope ... so you can sit cross-legged on the mats if you like, or swing in a hammock and sip your cool drink and eat your noonday meal. So while Kim Seng lectured two guys from an opposition newspaper about journalism ethics and professionalism ... I took pictures and watched the big muddy brown river slide by. The river is greyish brown, in fact ... and nothing you'd like to swim in. It is about 200-300 yards wide at this point. Not much action on it except for a couple of tired old ferries carrying foot passengers across to a large island where there seems to be lots of agriculture going on. Someone at riverside was casting a net into the waters and letting it drift before pulling it out. I would say that you would not want to eat anything that came out of there ... but I probably did. - - - - - - As one drives through the teeming streets, with lots of busy side roads, there are many examples of things built in French colonial days but looking very southeast Asian. At the royal palace, near the river, and adjacent park areas, there are some wonderful examples of Cambodian temple-style architecture in pagodas, park buildings and ... real temples. Most are painted a brilliant yellow ... a revered colour in Buddhism, and once reserved for the emperor in China. In that area there are a few grand boulevards obviously laid out by the French and there is a great sense of open-ness and fresh air that is absent in most other parts of the city. It is actually only about 8-10 blocks from my house ... but it took me a while to figure that out, because the street numbering system is so random and casual as to be totally chaotic if you are thinking numeracy in any logical way. For example ... my short street touches only three cross streets -- numbers 9, 21 and 29. None of these cross the grand boulevard ... the two streets that line up on the other side are No. 13 and 19 -- two streets away is No. 51. The Royal Palace and nearby national monument are quite remarkable architecture ... like, but also quite unlike, China's pavilions, pagodas, etc.: much more curvaceous in design, with rounded edges on everything so that they look light and airy. I walked along the river and saw some small craft, fishermen, and some very crude houseboats – actually that's too generous ... there is nothing about them that suggests "house" but it is evident that people live on them. They are a long slim craft .... with a pole slung lengthwise, and a reed mat thrown over the pole to give some shade. The river is the Tonle Sap, a tributary of the Mekong, which it meets in the middle of the city. It, too, is a dirty brown river, but there were still people washing and swimming in it .... not many .... but a few. - - - - - - I got lost, or disoriented, only twice. Once was near home and quickly got corrected. In the second case, I was more stubborn and it took longer, and had an amusing sidelight. I had wandered around for about an hour or more, seeing some of the sights ... it was damn hot (+36C and very humid) and I soon was sweating like a pig ... and proving again that "only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun." But I resisted the entreaties of the many dozens of motorcycle taxi-men who wanted to give me a ride ... and wandered down some side streets around the palace and the national museum. I finally got to a major thoroughfare, and realized I seemed to have gone too far. I walked down this main street in what I was pretty sure was the right direction ... and finally got to the really major boulevard in my area. But I thought I was very far from my normal haunts ... so I gave in to the next motorcycle guy who stopped. I told him I wanted to go to Lucky Market, the local supermarket in my area. He gave a rather wan smile and waved his arm in what I thought was the right direction ... and I got on the bike. We just got nicely going up the street when I saw the French bakery – which is across the street from Lucky. Now I knew why the guy smiled so weakly when I gave directions – we were about a block and a half away. Anyway, he deposited me .... and then declined to specify the fare ... "whatever you feel like" was the reply when I asked. I know this because I had a volunteer interpreter -- who seems to be the sister of the kid I have bought papers from a couple of times. She has a pretty permanent spot outside Lucky, it seems, selling papers with him, and selling little handmade flowers herself. Anyway, the two of them speak better English than some others who are purported to be studying it ... and these are pretty much street kids, I think. I gave the guy 500 riels, which I realized later was a bit cheap (about 12-14 cents US), but I suppose if he got 500 for ever half block he travelled, he'd have a damn good day. Coming home from the store, another guy charged me $1US+3,000 riels (about $1.75US) for the 10-block trip. He would have been happy with a dollar, I think, but upped the ante when he saw I had several single dollars in my hand. - - - - - - I took a ride up to the Central market ... I thought it would be a nice change of pace ... a different way to kill a couple of hours on an off day. Well, I lasted about 40 minutes. It is one of those places that has TOO MUCH of everything. There are row after row of jewelry display cases -- watches, bracelets, necklaces, rings and you name it -- by the square meter... then many, many rows of stalls of electronics gear, and bags and suitcases ... then women's clothes ... then shoes ... then food -- meat, fruit vegetables ... then souvenir T-shirts ... and all kinds of souvenir gizmos -- Buddhist statues, temples, bells ... endless kilometres of schlock generally. And there is not just ONE of anything ... but row after row after row. It would be quite easy to get lost there: in addition to a huge indoor section that covers probably two or three square blocks in a huge round hall with wings flying off it ... there are narrow little streets of tent-like structures outside -- completely surrounding the building on all its sides. Amazing. I did not last long, as I said ... because I find such places quite wearying. You can't stop to look at anything because somebody leaps out to show you something, or hauls something out of the case for you ... or wants you to try something on ... there is no such thing as just strolling and eye-shopping. Thrown in with all that, of course, it is a great place for beggars to gather and follow people who look like they have money. Some poor little kid leading his blind brother, a man in his twenties with stumps for legs slithering along on his bum as he begs for pennies, and any number of kids, men and young and older women with their hand out, or motioning that they need something to eat. I am afraid I don't handle these things very well any more. I, of course, want to give something to everybody, and realize I can't ... so, I just kind of go away. - - - - - - When folks who look like tourists are around the touristy area, they are besieged by moto-taxi guys wanting to take them to see the sights. They have a whole list they run down for you .... "Take you to the Killing Fields? ... Russian Market? .... New Market?"....etc. As I wandered about, I was resisting them all, even the guy who ran down the list .... "Killing Fields, museum, Central Market, etc." ... and wound up with what obviously was his clincher: "you want entertaining lady?" It was a very hot day ... so I politely declined. - - - - - - - - - - The Village. . . One day we had a great boat ride up the Mekong River to a country village ... saw the beginnings of a wedding celebration, and had pictures taken with bride and groom. The beautiful girl in a long white bridal dress was totally out of context in this mud-road village ... with a big jug-eared bridegroom in his fancy white suit tucked into his working boots looking distinctly uncomfortable as he slouched at her side. I wondered what future awaited this quite pretty young woman, 21 years old, who had worked for two years in a shop in the city, a mere 40-minute boat ride away. As we looked down the leafy, bamboo-lined street, one could speculate – in a couple of years or so, would it be her, barefoot, in a light cotton dress, leading that balky white cow down the rutted, muddy road to graze by the riverbank, a dark-eyed infant clutched to her hip? The village people were wonderful ... beautiful well-fed children, happy adults ... smiling faces ... rather a contrast to some parts of the city. It was a really wonderful bonus to our visit, as it was totally unexpected. We visited the local school, met neatly dressed kids who stood to greet us and stood again to say goodbye. About 60-70 kids sat in a square room with wide open windows, but no lighting, a mud floor, and thatched roof. When our guide said we were from Canada, the teacher struggled with the concept for some time before giving up. Maybe we'll send him a map to help sort it out. Kitty gave them some postcards of several European cities. If they put them on the walls ... it will be the only decoration. (Oh, yes ... Kitty McKinsey is a journalist, foreign correspondent, whom I first hired in 1972, again in 1977, and who has lived in and covered Eastern Europe for the past 16 years – just as she dreamed as a 16-year-old kid. She just finished a year's study at U. of Hawaii, in Asian Studies ... and as a result landed a job in Hong Kong with Far East Economic Review, one of the great publications of the world. She met us in Phnom Penh to make a guest appearance in my class). As we walked around the village, many of the ladies noticed stepson Michael, 21, six-foot-two, pretty good looking ... and wondered ... One of them said to our guide ...."mmmm, very handsome ... does he want to come to my house?" Our guide, owner of the boat that took us up the river, is the village's main (maybe only) entrepreneur. He owns 2-3 boats that ply the Mekong and other local rivers, taking tourists on little excursions, and he owns a handicraft shop in Phnom Penh. In the village, he has a small silk-weaving facility -- an outdoor area where two or three women work away at primitive looms placed under a palm-leaf awning, weaving wonderful patterns in tablecloths and dress material. He also supports the local school, paying the $200US a year it takes to hire a teacher for the village kids whose parents can afford to buy clothes and books to send them for lessons. (Unfortunately, there were other school-age kids -- equally cute and charming -- running around barefoot in the streets, their parents obviously unable to scratch up the few riels needed to outfit the child for school). He also collects rain water, holds it in settling tanks of earthenware and sells it at a modest price to a few neighbours for drinking and washing. Most of the rest of the village has to use Mekong water -- of which you do not want to know the details. After seeing people chest-deep in it casting their ancient fish nets, and swimming and washing in its muddy grey-brown waters, watering and rinsing off their cattle, horses and goats -- I'd have a tough time forcing a dipper full of even boiled river water down my throat. As we walked around, our guide had one of his hired hands scurry up a coconut palm and throw down five fresh specimens. Another hand expertly sliced the ends, inserted a straw and gave us the freshest possible coconut juice. It was very tasty, but not as cooling as when one of these fruits has sat in a freezer for an hour or so – the way they serve them on the beach in Brazil. Even in this seemingly remote little country spot, you can't escape reminders of the 40 years of war this country has endured. On our way to the local Wat (Buddhist temple), we passed through the large stone gates that still bear the bullet marks from when the Khmer Rouge passed through on their way to conquer the capital in April 1975, and launch their four-year reign of torture, terror and slaughter. As you stroll among the quiet groves of bamboo and coconut palm, watch the gentle farmers plowing and reaping in the manner of their ancestors, and gaze across the great expanse of that sluggish brown river, it is well nigh impossible to imagine gunfire and death in such a peaceful place.
Posted on May 15, 2000 by Lindsay CryslerThanks for sending along the address to Chad's site. I likely will not access it until I get home, as Internet time is very expensive in Cambodia, and I am playing with someone else's money. . . . to answer your question ... yes, it promises to be very interesting. I just finished my first day of school ... and next time I am stuck in what Halifax thinks is a traffic jam, I will remember whizzing through the streets to university and back on the back of a small motorcycle -- accompanied by several hundred cars, a few hundred bicycles, many dozens of pedicabs and many, many, many thousands of motor scooters and motorcycles -- carrying anywhere from one to four people. Every intersection at 7:15 a.m. looks like the Place de la Concorde at 9 p.m. on a Paris evening. I use that analogy because you can see that the folks here learned to drive from the French. It's sure not the Cabot Trail, Chad. If you want to reach me over summer, the address thats best is ...lindsaycrysler@canada.com... that will get me wherever I am. Cheers. Read the responses to this posting |