Creole Korean in Cambodia

I am not actually Creole; however, when people outside of Louisiana see me, they generally ask if I am so.  I am Afro-Asian (Korean + Black); but upon deeper dissecting, I realized that everything I loved about Cambodia echoed the Cajun, Creole traditions of my home: Louisiana.

What an incredible opportunity I was afforded to travel to Cambodia as part of a study-abroad program with a professor well-seasoned in his lay of the land and the local people.  I absolutely adored the architecture, the textile colors, the mass population of people riding mopeds, and the availability of fresh fruit.  There was also the added bonus of Phnom Penh being a riverfront town.  Throughout my travels, I have found that I connect best with cities on the water as this earth element tends to add a sense of laissez faire to its local residents.

During our two-week stay, we visited local villages with donations of food, shoes and toothbrushes; we dove into dark history at museums; we visited historical buildings and paid respects at numerous killing fields; and we visited a Muslim village to share lunch.  One of my favourite memories was when we toured through a floating village while also making a stop to drop off more donations at the Vietnamese floating school. 

It was not until after I returned home and upon further research learned more about the origins of one of the floating villages and why they were mostly comprised of Vietnamese citizens.  The residents remained as the aftermath of French colonization abandoning Vietnamese non-citizens without papers in a country that does not recognize their right to own land.  These stateless families are therefore given the same rights as the Khmer and have built generations of families on the water.

Despite this history, the water tour is what brought me to truly appreciate the richness of Cambodia revealing that is was not unlike my home.

CAMBODIA = SOUTH LOUISIANA once you trade:

* coconut drinks for daiquiris

* crocs for gators

* Khmers for Cajuns

...and you are left with hospitable, resilient people who have incorporated the residual effects of French colonization and spun it into their own unique expressions. 

The Path to Preikestolen Perch

It had been a chilly and somewhat rainy week in Stavanger, Norway.  When the weather had graciously cleared on my final day, I went for a solo hike to Priekestolen.  At some point, the trail split into two: the cliff trail versus the hill trail.  I would have chosen the cliff, but that was where all the masses were headed, so I opted out, and I was rewarded richly.
I climbed gigantic boulders, listened to nature in solace, and took my time on the trail observing details without being surrounded by swarms of tourists.
Along the way, I made a hasty decision to scale a monstrous rock possessing only one small foothold on its smooth curves and nothing solid for my fingers, yet I managed to boost myself up from a neighboring rock and decided I would figure out how to get down when the time came.  I knew this was probably not the best decision, but I had already committed.
I took amazing photos from my new perspective, sang loudly without reservation, and did a white-knuckled headstand just on the edge of the boulder.
When I finally made the decision to climb down, I had trouble locating my foothold because the edge of the rock was so steep that there was no possible way to look over the side carefully without tumbling over.
After a few failed attempts at locating my foothold and weighing my other options for a bit, I saw a couple in the distance and called out to them.  They came over and asked what I needed.  Suddenly, my foot cramped as it dangled over the edge of the rock, and I rolled onto my back in agony before I could respond.
The couple shouted to see if I was OK, but I was not sure how to immediately respond.  Then, as if on cue, a chopper circled overhead.  As I lay on my back weighing my options and massaging the tension from my foot, I told myself that flagging down the chopper would be fantastic but cheating.
I lay a bit longer before sitting up with refreshed determination.  At this point, the couple had left me to sort my issues alone, but of course I understood they had their own agenda for the afternoon which did not involve me.  Therefore, I scooted myself to the edge of the boulder and reflected upon my go-to climbing mantra: let go and let God.

I had the option of jumping to the tiny boulder halfway between me and solid group, but I would need to be quite precise as to not over-jump.  However, this seemed the better option than attempting to climb down and risk sliding along the steep and jagged face of the boulder upon which I stood, especially because I was only had hiking sandals on my feet.
My head was thinking YOLO (you only live once)… but really, YOLO.
Yet, I decided and made my jump to the smaller boulder.  I landed safely, no major drama, but I did land painfully on the side of my sore foot.

Yet as I continued on just around the bend, the pain seemed to dissipate when I was greeted by one of the most picturesque scenes I had ever encountered.  The sky was crystalline with the cheeriest clouds scattered as accent in a panoramic view.  The 360 degree mountain view engulfed me as I tried to comprehend how acutely I could see  the crisp details stretching for miles alongside the river.
The scene was breath-taking, still, and gracious.  It was awe-full… full of awe.

The view felt as if I had jumped into a masterpiece aerial view painting of the river with lush mountains on either side dotted with tiny people.  Taking the hill route had allowed me to be far higher up on the mountain in a more isolated area apart from the crowded cliffs I could look down toward.

As I stood thanking the heavens, I removed my shoes and dug my toes into the earth to remain truly grounded in the experience.  From there, I thanked myself for taking the road less traveled and relaxed upon the hill in silence thanking the higher Being for the immaculate encounter.

Alone on Easter Island

The 3 days I spent on Easter Island included one of the most moving experiences of my life.  On my day of exploration, I chose my interactions carefully and had successfully avoided buses full of guided tourists bearing fanny packs and water bottles.

I set out from my hostel that morning with only a rough understanding of the island and rented a 4-wheeler.  Eventually, I reached a large stretch of the coast made up of pure black jagged lava rocks ending in the crystal blue ocean, so I pulled over on my quad to watch the waves crash higher than one story overhead.

I gingerly walked bare-footed across the sharp rocks to what I noticed was a mid-sized tide pool and was stunned to see the gorgeous emeralds and sapphires glistening off the coral reef inside. When I reached the safest distance at the edge of the land before the ocean, I stood looking at the ocean reflecting the hues of  the blue sky and around at the green fields stretching for miles behind me. I sealed that moment deep within because I knew that there was not another single soul near me for thousands of miles across the water and as far as I could hear or see on the island.  It was the most overwhelming yet comforting feeling of being alone I had ever felt.

I continued on my ride and committed to silence for the day in order to preserve the purity of my experience.  I successfully accomplished this until I crossed paths with a local family who flagged me down as I created dust clouds behind my quad while speeding along the ocean path.

I quickly realized that I could still hold true to my vow if I adjusted it to say, “I commit to not speak any English today.”  The fourth generation Rapa Nui family invited me into their camping spot.  They explained that while they live on the island, on occasion, they enjoy escaping the “town” and setting up in a cave, whose walls are covered with ancient pictographs, for a week while living off the land and eating fresh fish from the ocean.

At that moment, one of the younger sons ran over holding up the most beautiful sea creature I had ever laid eyes upon: a parrotfish.  Every metallic hue of the color wheel could be found in its surreal patches throughout its scales.

As the family threw these living masterpieces on the fire and gnawed away with smiles, I knew it was time for me to lay my vegan badge aside and fully dive into this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

When I said goodbye to the family and continued my journey, I was able to hold to my commitment and continue exploring the island in blissful silence which permanently sealed the sensation of pure aloneness which could truly only be felt on the most remote island in the world.    

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Motorcycle Diary

I had known him only a few weeks, and we met at a cafe; but he seemed trustworthy.  Boe: a middle-aged biker with a mustache that would make Hulk Hogan feel less of a man.  Since day one, he had promised to take me for a ride on one of his Harleys, and finally the afternoon arrived when he pulled up to the cafe on his carriage.  I suspected we would go for ride around the block, so I did not hesitate to hop on board as he handed me a very unflattering helmet suited for Mr. Bean himself.

Before I knew it, we were bolting off at top speed: 70 mph down Pacific Coast Highway, then 80 mph onto a major freeway.  From there, we maintained our own record of breaking every speed law with which we were presented.  It finally dawned on me that I was in for an actual day trip, not just a stroll around the neighborhood; so tightened my helmet, held on with both arms, and involuntarily kept my eyes closed to combat the violent watering.

While hitting top speeds and darting past traffic, the wind met my face with the speed of a bullet but the density of a cotton ball.  Steadily, the distance between the far-off mountains and us decreased, and the images of the city began to disappear as the scenery became more green.

Suddenly, I realized we had reached our destination: a small biker bar seated atop the mountain where only those who truly belong would venture.

Pulling the helmet away from my head made it apparent that the winds had done a fine job of tangling an impossible knot into my hair of what had been exposed beyond the helmet.  The bar was relatively empty in this early afternoon, but nonetheless I managed to catch everyone’s eyes as I stumbled through the door into the dark room.

Much to my sweet surprise, the menu included veggie patties, so Boe and I exchanged stories over burgers and fries at which time, he declared,

“I got a head start on being a hippie”

simply meaning he was growing his hair out before he was aware of the implications for his generation. When the meal was complete and all sensation had returned to my face, it was time to journey back from whence we came.  However, this time I had learned my lesson before mounting the motorcycle, and decided to tuck my hair into the unflattering helmet therefore completing the illusion of my resemblance to Mr. Bean for the journey home.

There remains no ability to appear composed when high speed winds blitz your face.

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