Nirvana lives in Cambodia
It’s true, I was taken back to 1991, was that the year? Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ was the only thing they were playing on the radio, in Detroit that was 89X, to be exact (with a little Smashing Pumpkins, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam and Jane’s Addiction). Were we at St. Andrew’s Hall or at the Shelter in the mosh pit (or trying to get in the mosh pit…or maybe just standing around the periphery, wishing we were in the mosh pit…)? Regardless, it was the time of ‘Lollapalooza’ and all that good stuff—summer concerts at Pine Knob where you got dropped off by your friend’s mom, then eventually, got to take the Oldsmobile or minivan yourself— the night was filled with your friends, dancing in place, bobbing your head, smoking a lot and pretty much trying to look damn cool.
I was reminded of those times on Friday night when I went to meet some friends at a bar called Zepplin’s (again, we didn’t grow up in the 70’s but remember how Led Zepplin IV was another one of those had-to-haves in the tape player all the time? It all comes around) to hear an acquaintance’s band play. I walked in just as the opening band was warming up; low lights, lots of people milling around, chatting and drinking cans of $1 Anchor beer waiting for the show to start. There was even a loft area like a mini St. Andrew’s or 9:30 Club. I immediately felt like I should be wearing my doc marten’s and a flannel shirt wrapped around my waist. The opening band was taking the small stage set up in the corner of the main floor—they were like 16 or 17 years old wearing Vans, doc marten’s, second-hand shirts—old-man checker-style buttoned to the top, various punk band t-shirts and black pants or long shorts. The guitars were getting tuned up, the drummer was arranging his stool, twirling the drum sticks; one of the kids was checking the amp, another testing the mic and then a just-turned-mature voice cracked as it said ‘How’s everyone doing tonight?!’…the audience of 17 year olds crowded close together up front, started to yell and clap and the boys on stage strummed a few cords and then I immediately recognized the unforgettable lyrics of Kurt Cobain: “…here we are now entertain us…I feel stupid and contagious, here we are now…” Man. I settled in with my cold Anchor next to another young fan who was beginning to jump up and down… “these guys are great, yeah?!” another one yelled over the guitar riffs: “I love these guys!” I couldn’t help bobbing my head and letting a big smile open up across my face—I would need another beer for this. After 3 beers and a few more Nirvana, Jane’s Addiction and other very familiar 90’s ‘alternative’ music hits the whole crowd was bobbing their heads and air-fisting towards the group; there was even a pack of 16 year old girls starting their own little mosh pit in front of the boys who were playing their hearts out.
My friends and I marveled at how times come and go, and then come around again; we all had been here before—of course not in Phnom Penh, but in a very similar place, not far from our parents’ homes about 10-15 years ago. Their short, but no less charged set ended and they got the praise they were hoping for—girls ogling, other guys high-fiving and of course, I can imagine one major highlight for the rock-stars-in the making: the next band, made up of 30-40 year old rockers who had seen the same early-gig-days just as the Nirvana-covering 17 year olds—congratulated the opening act for their skills and yelled “this is the future of Cambodian Rock ‘n Roll!!” and the small crowd erupted into more whooping and high fives.
I realized that I needed this—when was the last time I was at a show like this? Despite the amateur sound and the small venue in PNP, I was transported back to some of the most vivid memories I have from high school, where all that mattered was your group of friends gathered on a blanket from your mom’s trunk, drinking huge stadium-sized cokes, smoking a lot of cigarettes and bobbing your heads back and forth as you mouthed every lyric, hoping the band would play for hours more; you hoped that the warm summer night on the hill at Pine Knob would never end, but at least you had the ticket stub secure in your back pocket to display proudly on your bedroom mirror or bulletin board the next day—ears ringing, knowing you would never forget that night and feeling like the coolest kids at the show. My friend’s band started—more mature, few covers, still loud and with their own style…I stayed for a few, but with the strong smell of smoked cigarettes on my clothes, sweaty shirt and ringing ears, I called a it a night at 11:45pm, just making that universal curfew I remember so well from the summer of 1991, was that it?…still smiling and head bobbing, sneaked out among the 16 year olds and got a moto taxi who safely delivered me home.
No Blinker Required
Not when you’re changing lanes. No, don’t turn that blinker on when you’re turning off a roundabout and please swerve around those speed bumps! I knew this is what my driving teacher, Mr., um, what-was- his-name-again would definitely be saying to me if he and I could communicate in the same language. Instead, we use a variety of non-verbal signals that include uh-huhs, hand gestures (him) and nodding. He is also prone to grabbing my arm, hand or pulling my pant-leg to really get his point across. This most often occurs when he doesn’t want me to use the turn signal, especially when changing lanes, passing or turning most corners. He just reaches across the steering wheel and clicks it off, as if he doesn’t quite trust me with this responsibility in only my second class. Svay Rieng Driving School has proven to be fairly ineffectual and by most accounts, requires you to not follow the international driving regulations. Just as I expected.
Despite this, I decided it was necessary for me to get some driving time in over the next few weeks before I take on the challenge of driving the 10+ year-old land cruiser that I’ve been offered until our nice Mitsubishi Pajero arrives (I’ve been told it might take anywhere from 4-10 months for it to roll off the boat). Since the old hoopty land cruiser is quite temperamental and has a tricky ignition and clutch, my limited skills in driving a manual were becoming more apparent, so my Khmer tutor suggested I check out the driving school; he said: ‘they’ll fix you up and they’ve got a janky old camry you can practice on—might be similar to the bad-start-clutch problem of the hoopty at the office.’ So that’s how I ended up in the driving school/ice cream parlor, sipping Cambodian’s answer to bubble tea (sweet milk with ice and fluorescent colored tapioca balls) last Saturday morning while waiting for my instructor. I tried to get my tutor to go along for the ride, but he sheepishly bowed out, using his girlfriend as a likely excuse. I kept saying, ‘I do know how to drive, really, my license is just in Phnom Penh getting approved for a Cambodian license…’ he wasn’t buying it. I thought, well, this is going to be difficult; taking a driving lesson where the student and driver don’t speak the same language. Hmm. Then it also occurred to me that I was going to be really driving in Cambodia and what with all the activity on the road (and my tendency to have a bit of a ‘lead-foot’) I could very well hit a small child, cow, pig or swerve off into a rice paddy or fish pond. Ok, check insurance. Insurance? It seems even ridiculous to ask. I know the answer will be no, but I ask anyway, and to my surprise, they say ‘Yes, in fact we do have insurance and if you hit something while the teacher is in the car, then no problem.’ Ok, but again, what does ‘no problem’ mean? I get the feeling they don’t want to say no as I might leave, so I get it in writing. Easy, they just rip a page out of a kid’s school notebook and write something in Khmer I can not read…for all I know it could say ‘this foreign lady is nuts, we wouldn’t insure her for anything in South Eastern Cambodia, especially since she’ll be in that jacked-up Camry…’. But what else to do but trust ‘em. Never mind that they haven’t asked for any ID like my passport, ID card or a permit (I don’t think they have those here though…). So, with my notebook-paper insurance card (the owner’s (?) thumb print for authenticity) and only my office ID card in my wallet, I get into the driver’s seat.
The driver and I start the mime routine: he motions for me to step on the clutch, then brake then release the parking break, then practice shifting 1-2-3-4-5-R, back to N…before we actually pull out onto the street. I notice at this point that he’s got one of those safety breaks on his side—sweet, I’m really protected, we can both slam on the breaks if a herd of buffalo run across the street and I panic. So we set out, slowly around the town. I can handle this, piece of cake; it’s coming back to me now. I think: let’s open her up, get this old camry going…but he’s already putting on the break, not the balls-out attitude I expect from my Cambodian driving instructor. But then we get on the main road and he lets me get going—oh, and did I mention the speedometer is broken? Yeah, I have no idea how fast I’m traveling and he motions that it doesn’t really matter anyway (true, I guess, as I’ve only seen one speed limit sign since I’ve been in country, it’s somewhere close to Phnom Penh on route 1…Anyway, I make my way, he teaches me the subtle nuances of the horn. Yes, this is quite important. Not just for anything, but for most things—children, bikers, intersections, motos, cows, ducks, buffalo etc…but not for other cars. No, not sure why but he didn’t want any of that honking to fellow drivers.
The best part of the drive was when we were coming to the end of the class, making our way back to the driving school/ice cream parlor and we came to the corner (after I was non-verbally scolded for stopping at an intersection to let three high school kids cross…) and I realized there were several downed wires across the road. Ugh, I thought “looks like I’ll have to turn around.” I begin to reverse and my instructor gets all bent-out-of-shape and motions to keep going. “What?!” I’m thinking, “um, downed wires my friend, I’m not going across that.” At the same time, a little boy on the sidelines notices my hesitation and wants good karma for the day—he walks over to the wires and just as I’m about to scream at him ‘DON’T TOUCH THE WIRES!’ he’s already hoisted them above his head and is making an arch for us to travel under. Amazing. Damn, when will it cease to amaze me? Oh, yes, only when at that point I go under the wires, automatically switch the turn signal and, denied! My silent passenger reaches over and hits my hand away—DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH THAT BLINKER!’ I pulled the car into the lot as my instructor motioned towards his watch and ‘the future’—same time next week, same place? I nod accordingly and wave good-bye.
Anyway, I was now seemingly out of danger, out of the driver’s seat and walking back home…but back to the danger of downed wires: clearly kids here aren’t taught to not touch wires that are dangling from the electricity posts, trees or laying on the ground. In fact, they’re encouraged to help clear the situation. I notice there are hordes of kids gathered around several electricity posts holding a lot of random, dangling wires as a few older men look on at the technicians tinkering away at some ball of tangled wires above them. It’s like they’ve been recruited as free labor to help install the new Vietnamese electricity that is supposedly going to save SVR lots of money and dark nights. I’m still waiting to see this happen. Anyway, I guess the kids have hope. More than I can say for the driving school.
