"I will survive, oh as long as I know how to love I know I'll stay alive..." as sung by one Erika Wiquist in the hotel lobby of the Angkor Wat Century Hotel in Cambodia with her new friend Danny, the guitar-playing, karaoke-leading dynamo .

"Su-stay!"..."Su-staaay!"..."Su-staaay!" Riding in the back of the Cambodian version of the tuk-tuk (think motorbike with cushioned two seater in tow), I was serenaded by the melodious cries of "hello" in Khmer (language of Cambodia) by Kari and Dori, two rising high school juniors from the Bullis school. The near full moon and post rain cool of the early Siem Reap night provided the perfect backdrop for the enthusiastic innocence of youth captured in those greetings. This was a far cry from the always tense and somewhat disorienting feeling of a post haggle cycle rickshaw ride in India and an ever farther cry from the environment that I had left behind a few days earlier. India was waning as Cambodia waxed into full view; a very different set of emotions and observations replacing the comfort of unruly cacophony that I had left behind. I was no longer in Kansas, but where was I??

After Bodhgaya, I hopped a train to Calcutta. The exasperating ordeal of finding the train to Calcutta (me: "Which track is the train to Calcutta?" station master: (a term I use loosely) "Track 2 or 3." me: "Well, which one is it?" station master: "Two or three." me: "Oh, ok, thanks.") had been aided by a high school student studying in Delhi on his way home for holiday. Since the track number was a mystery and the announcements came only in Hindi, I was glad for the fortuitous meeting that had provided the much needed information (track 3) as well as a lively debate about the merits of Pete Sampras as the best tennis player of all time and a earnest attempt to explain the appeal of cricket to one who had never heard of the name (which I forget) of the equivalent of the Michael Jordan of cricket. The woosy feeling I felt upon boarding the train was just the cumulative effect of the confusion of the track number and the oppressive heat, I assured myself. Eight hours of train riding and a hotly contested cab negotiation later, I could no longer deny that I was feverish. I spent the night and following day alternating between shivering under a musty blanket and venturing across the street for the comfort of Western fare (pizza and eggs). My days in Calcutta were a combination of weary jaunts and long hotel rests under the deterrant cover of the full monsoon rains. By the time I left for my flight back to Delhi, I had managed to post a few blogs, send some emails, catch a flick (War of the Worlds with a racous Indian audience. Just when Tom was facing the imminent attack of the metallic invaders in his ex-wife's basement, everyone started chatting, the lights went on and snack vendors ushered through the aisles offering popcorn, chips and soda for the intermission portion of the movie. Only in India...) and made a brave outing to the Kali temple (another place that tried to take me for a feduciary ride. Make no mistake about it, religion is big business. Every temple, mosque, synagogue and church has a way into your pockets. At least in India, they are very upfront about it. You know those incense sticks and forehead paintings come with a price). Otherwise, it was a pretty uninspired time in which I felt the constant push of India become more oppressive than endearing and more of a place to leave behind than become a part of. Travelling is a dynamic set of experiences, emotions and comfort levels. I guess I was ready for the next step in my personal edification. It was on to Southeast Asia! (India will always hold a special place in my heart. I remember looking at the travel advertisement upon my arrival that proclaimed "Incredible !ndia", an obvious marketing ploy with pictures of the Taj and a fit Western looking woman doing yoga on a mountaintop in Rajastan. Those words rang true as I boarded my flight for Bangkok (a mere four hours after the departure time. They had changed the flight a few days earlier, which was news to me. A parting gift from this enigmatic country). India is an incredible place that reminds me of my family. It is loud, difficult, utterly confusing at times but always loving and, for better or worse, a part of you. In so many ways, I felt like I had a new component of my life that would stay with me, even as I was ready to get away from it in a hurry.)

My rendevouz with Kari and Dori was still a day away, but my introduction to Southeast Asia was an immediate assault on the senses. I landed in Bangkok and realized that I had left one world (Kansas) and entered another (New York City). Bangkok is about as Western as they come. The digital camera that met my beleaugered face at immigration was just the first of many indicators that I was no longer in a place of handwritten train schedules and static announcements, but had entered a highly technologized environ. I was met at the exit by a Thai friend of a Thai resident (American born) friend of the family that had graciously offered me a place to stay for my one night layover before my trip to Cambodia. He was a friendly guy named Manok who enthusiastically questioned me about the comfort of my flight and our conversation quickly turned to golf. We discussed the dominant performance of Tiger Woods during the first two rounds of the British Open and I commented on the proximity of the umbrella chapeu'd golfers to the landing 747s of the Bangkok International airport (we landed a good 200 yards from the twelfth hole of the "airport course"). He explained to me that they wore ear plugs (of course. that'll assuredly help you block out the screaming of the plane engines as you line up for that crucial birdie put on the 18th) and have to wait to cross jetway paths until the planes roll through. He promised that we could check out the local golfing scene when I returned from Bangkok. Awesome. A relaxing evening complete with shower (hot water!), authentic Thai food (not curry), and a few hours of Tiger watching later, I was on my way to the airport again for my journey to Cambodia.

As I pondered the adventure that awaited me in Cambodia (the historic Khmer temples of Angkor Wat, life in the village of Siem Reap, and simple living after the indulgence of the previous night), I looked forward to the burst of energy that would be soon approaching in the form of Erika and her band of high school pipers. After my mostly alone time in Calcutta and a brief interaction with a friend of my Mom's, I was ready for the comfort of good friends and a group of folks that match my emotional and behavioral equivalent; namely, kids. The encounter did not dissapoint as Erika beamed her large smile and shouted "Timmmmy!" with her entourage of ipod-listening, souvenier-toting high schoolers bouncing behind. I boarded the plane with a smile as I slowly acclimatized myself to my new environment and travelling companions. After a brief discussion of the new Harry Potter book (Dori read it in two days) and awkward over the seat introductions, we were on our way to Siem Reap.

When the airconditioned bus and tour guide pulled up to our waiting group just outside the airport gate (and not a hungry group of rickshaw wallahs), I realized that this trip might have some ammenities that had not been there in India. (of course that was intentional. I surely could have travelled like that in India, but think of all I would have missed out on...) "Joy", our aptly nicknamed tour guide, gave us a brief introduction of Siem Reap as we headed to our hotel. We arrived at the Angkor Wat Century Hotel and were met by an army of head bowing, hand touching bellhops who ushered our bags into the massive foyer. This place was a bit different than the Ganpati (where I had been subjected to those neat rowed chomping bedbugs) and I felt a bit embarrased as I attempted to carry my own backpack up to my room. How was I supposed to immerse myself in the populous of this new country from the restrictive confines of this lavish cultural prison? A welcome drink and dip in the pool later, I rationalized to myself that their were all kinds of different ways to experience a place, and I would just have to quit my inner monologue complaining and make the best of it.

Pooled, showered and hydrated with complimentary water, we gathered in the foyer to make our first venture into Siem Reap proper. We were to tuk-tuk to the main street in town for a meal at the Deadfish (nice name for a restaurant) and an introduction to the people of Cambodia. One of the great things about being in a group of kids is that there is an energy there that is contagious. We arrived at the Deadfish in laughter (well, it was kind of giggling, but I of course would never describe my laughter in that manner) after sustained shouts of "Su-staay!" had met the waving residents of the small Camdodian town. We sat down (on the floor) to a pleasant Thai meal and the good company of a new group of insquisitive high schoolers. The place had ambience to say the least as a quick tour around revealed a pool table, crocodile pit, fish pond and stage where musicians sang and dancers danced to the beats of traditional Cambodian tunes (hard to describe). An invigorating post meal conversation about my favorite authors (it really is hard to talk about ones own favorite writers when confronted with the eager smile, bright eyes and nodding head of a high school student who is writing down every name you mention in the folded pages of a New Yorker magazine) with Kari, we headed back to the hotel under cover of moonlight and the thematic "Su-stay!" backbeat of the evening. As the kids made their way up to their rooms, I contentendly settled into my seat in the main lobby bar eager to catch up with Erika and Jen (her fellow Bullis teaching, group leading compatriot) and regale them with exciting tales of India. We didn't get very far. Danny had spotted our entrance with the trained eyes of a Simon Cowell protegee and before our drinks (water for me) had arrived, Erika was up "on stage" preparing for her first of what was to be ten consecutive karaoke numbers (that I saw, I went to bed and they didn't come up for another hour or so), among them the aforementioned "I will survive". Little did I know that this song would resonate in my mind over the next few days and provide the thematic inspiration for this very blog. (Which is long. Didn't have a chance to post in Cambodia. Heading to Burma tomorrow for a week where they don't have internet. If I was you and I was at an Indian movie, I would be asking for a soda and some popcorn right about now. Just wait till the Burma post!)

The next morning we met up with "Joy" (following an all encompassing breakfast buffet where they had bacon! and a full omellette bar. I may have put back on all that weight I lost in India back in a matter of three days) to check out the singular Camodian tourist image of Angkor Wat. The temple of Angkor Wat is the most famous of a complex of temples called Angkor, built over a period of Khmer rule between the 12th and 16th centuries in Cambodia. This time period represented a golden age of territorial rule for a country that has had numerous intrusions from the at times more powerful dynastic neighbors of India, Thailand, Vietnam and China. Each ruler of the Khmer dynasty built a temple to celebrate their rule (often in a hurry and with cheap labor. Angkor Wat was built in just over 30 years). Because of the number of rulers and the tendency of these rulers to legitimize their own rule and one up the past ruler, many built a number of temples in the enormous complex known as Angkor. Angkor Wat is one of the seven ancient wonders of the world, a marvel of architecture and the singular vision of its ruler, Jayavan II (this may not be the right name. Don't have the ol lonely planet in front of me). Our tour around the complex consisted of a viewing of the encircling bas reliefs of different Khmer and Hindu stories (the most famous of which is the depiction of the battle between Hindu Gods and Demons entitled "Churning the Ocean of Milk", also featured outside the main entryway of the Angkor Century). These reliefs were guarded by a thin red rope and a weathered sign posting "hands off" as a number of the reliefs displayed the residued shine of generations of "hands on" tourists. The effort to restore and preserve these important historical sites has taken on an international flavor as groups like the British, Japanese and Cambodian governments have realized the importance of keeping away the treasure hunting looters and toxin covered hands of everyday tourists (with the notable exception of the Bayon, sight of the fliming of a memorable portion of the Angelina Jolie headlined cinematic classic Tomb Raider, which maintains its natural appearance. Massive trees cover this temple and have done their best to show that it is nature and not man, who is the more powerful of these oft opposed rivals. The roots of these trees have pushed aside massive pieces of temple rock and split intricately carved reliefs in twain with the aid of nothing more than water and Co2. It is quite a striking sight to see the power of nature so overrun the best efforts of our historical ancestors). After a scramble up the 80 degree staircase to the top of Angkor Wat and a mere two hour outing, we headed back to the air conditioned sanctuary of our tour bus and lunch and a dip at the Angkor Century. Not quite the epic four hour journey across the Indian fields of Bodhgaya, but who was I to complain.

That afternoon we headed to the best part (for me and I think most of the kids as well) part of our Cambodian excursion. We were to undertake a project that Jen had done before during her time in the Peace Corps in Africa. The basic premise was to go to a local school (in this case an orphanage as well) to paint a world map mural for the students, who were oftentimes without a textbook containing maps of any kind. In a series of three afternoon sessions, we were to grid an entire blue painted wall with pencilled latitude and longitude lines, sketch a detailed version of the political boundaries of all of the countries (islands included), and paint in contrasting colors the land area that made up the soverign state of every assemblage of peoples in the world. To say that I was skeptical that me (an artistic liability at best) and a group of nine high school students could complete the task (even with the assurances and watchful eyes of our fearless leader) was an understatement. The first afternoon yielded a series of increasingly slanted longitudinal lines and an twice erased numbering system on both the top and side of the mural in our earnest three hours of work (actually, I can take no credit for this portion of the project. I spent most of my time outside of the work area observing first an English language class taught by a decidedly nervous teacher in my presence, walking around the orphanage complex checking out the housing for the Buddhist monks who shared the area with the students, and engaged in a lengthly talk with Joy about his life and country. He had been orphaned during the seventies as both of his parents had lost their lives during the infamous reign of Pol Pot and the Khmer rouge. The history of this event and the ramifications of this Marxist inspired rule had devestating effects for the people of Cambodia. It is estimated that a full quarter of the population of Cambodia lost their live in the "killing fields" of the agrarain ideals of Communist rule. (if you haven't seen the movie "The Killing Fields" starring one Law and Order Sam Watterston, you simply must. It is enlightening, heartbreaking and an accurate portrayal of both the horrors of the rule of the Khmer rouge as well as the not so blameless US involvement in that country.) The genocide initiated by the Khmer rouge as it ousted the cultural elite, (teachers, politicians, anyone who disagreed with the Marxist vision) rivaled that of Rwanda in the nineties or the Balkans in the late eighties and early nineties. Listening to Joy talk about his life as an orphan where he alternated between a life as a farmer living with his uncle and a six year stint as a Buddhist monk living at a monastery, I thought about the notion of survival. People have an amazing ability to survive in the most dire of circumstances. I immediately connected Joy's expereince with the foremost image of genocide in my mind (the Holocaust) and tried to imagine the rationalization that must have taken place in the minds of these leaders. Genocide has been a hallmark of many ruling groups around the world throughout history, a characteristic that I just can't write off to human nature, no matter how hard I try. I fail to understand what sort of person or group of people could willingly undertake the extermination of a fellow human being in the name of country, God or any other force. If I am a member of a species capable of this, maybe I want out. Joy had managed to distance himself from the horror of this reality over time, but to hear it from his lips and to see the missing limbed inhabitant victims of Siem Reap, reminded me of the abomination that humanity is capable of and its resilance as well. The people of Cambodia had survived and Joy was someone who could hopefully help to heal the minds and hearts of those who had suffered). Needless to say, I felt a renewed need to impart some positive spirit to a group of people who had suffered so much, and if that was to come in the form of a wall mural, then I was going to do my damnedest to paint to the best of my limited artistic abilities.

Over the next two days we spent the mornings on cultural adventures (always via airconditioned bus or hotel to restaurant, restaurant to hotel tuk tuks. Not once did I feel the connection with the people of Cambodia, aside from Joy and the children at the orphanage, that I had felt in India, but I did have the opportunity for a few "teachable moments" along the way. Kari, my literary minded friend, had been assaulted by a menacing group of five year old Cambodians outside of one of the restaurants. After giving away her half drunk milkshake, her two single dollar bills and whatever change she had in her pocket, she handed a ten dollar bill to the last begging child! Afterwards I talked with her a bit about the best way to handle a situation like that. I imparted my newfound wisdom from my India experience and told her that giving away that amount of money was probably doing more harm than good. Most likely, the kid would have to give up that money to a parent or older sibling and would in no direct way benefit from the donation. Also, it reinforced a culture of begging that is a systematic problem in tourist heavy areas all over the world. I suggested to her that next time she use her money to buy the children something to eat or offer a "sorry" and not to feel like she is being assaulted. I reminded her that these were just kids and that she needn't be afraid, but rather confident, compassionate and firm. Her mood improved after she realized that she wouldn't have to give up her compassionate heart to conquer her fear of these types of interactions) at various temple complexes and on a boat trip to the Tonle Sap lake (where we met the "bucket boys", the aquatic version of the street begging children. These kids' strategy was to wait until the tour boats stopped, then assault the waiting boat under a "two if by sea" approach. They hopped out of their mother ship into metallic buckets equipped with paddle and bailer and made their way over to our boat. These particular kids were met with starbursts and jolly ranchers to go along with the plastic water bottle that soon joined forces with the paddle to form a makeshift bat and ball game. They sucked the candies as they whacked the bottle and wrestled each other into the water. Submerged buckets would reappear and they would deftly hop into them and bail frantically before paddling off to the next boat. It was one of those hilarious travel moments that won't soon be forgetten) The floating village made for an interesting glimpse into the lives of people who lived their lives on water, in houseboats comlpete with battery operated televisions.

But mostly the days were about the mural. I did my best to trace those country lines (the kit which the Peace Corps endorses ought to say "painting the world for Dummies" because it is stupid easy to do, even for yours truly) and paint the borders of each of the countries while staying inside the lines. My myopic focus resulted in the passing of three sweaty hours in the blink of an eye and on the third day, we completed the mural and took congratulatory photos of our hard work with the children of the orphanage. Not only did I enhance some geography skills concerning the "stan" countries (Turkmenistan borders Uzbekistan), but also I felt like I had been a part of a tangible, positive force that could somehow push further back some of the gruesome history of the previous generation. I know we can't save the world in three days, but I do feel like we can really impact individual lives in a hurry if we impart positivity and care for those around us.

I know that as long as I know how to love I'll stay alive (especially in the luxury of five star accomodation), but I hope that I will be able to pass on enough love to help others do the same. It may not be an entire orphanage, an entire group of high school students or even an entire personal journey, but I know that I will continue to strive to regain the feeling that I get when I give a student an opportunity to learn where Turkmenistan is or how to add to the bright blue hue of their own country...