Laundry, version 2.0

    The idea of doing our own laundry by hand (or foot, as the case may be) seemed reasonable enough, until we both started working way more than we expected and our sweaty, dusty clothes piled up faster than we anticipated. It was time to re-examine our options.

     And there are many options. On every block, there are multiple places offering laundry service, charging anywhere from $1 to $2 per kilo. Most places wash by hand and hang to dry. Some use city water, some use well water, and some use water of questionable origin. Some hang their laundry almost in the street to dry, so it can get a head start on accumulating the grit and grime that it will eventually collect when you wear it again. Some hang it on the roof, where it catches a nice breeze and an occasional afternoon downpour to provide an extra rinse cycle. The general feeling is that when laundry is hand-washed at a laundry business, it gets scrubbed with a brush, which causes clothes to wear out faster.

     The other option here is brand new: Three Hours Laundry opened a business that uses actual washers and dryers, and has promotions going on to entice new customers. I couldn't resist and bought a "gold membership" which meant I paid $40 for $50 worth of credit toward laundry service.

3 Hours Laundry
"We are using washer and dryer machine."
(I think the problem is that they only have one of each machine.)

     I think they're still working out all the kinks, as many new businesses have to do. First of all, "Three Hours Laundry" is a bit of a misnomer. I was at their front door this morning at 9:00 when they opened, and was told I could have my laundry back by 4:00 or 5:00. So they really should be called "Eight Hours Laundry."

     They advertise pick-up and delivery service, but they don't really have that yet. It's just as well; it's easier to bring the laundry over on my bike than it would be to try to explain where we live. ("Take Wat Bo Road north through the traffic light at Route 6, then turn right into the dirt lane between two concrete walls and go four houses past the empty lot where the frogs are singing....")

     They offer some complex options. You can have your laundry machine washed and dried for $1/kilo, or washed, dried, and ironed for $1.50/kilo. OR, you can have 4 kilos of laundry "80% dry" for $1.50 total. I asked for a little clarification on that one. "That mean not all dry, just 80%." So I guess I would bring it home and hang it to finish drying. The price is such a bargain that I couldn't resist giving it a shot. I'll let you know how it works out...sometime after 5:00 pm.

     As an added bonus, I am now Facebook friends with 3 Hours Laundry.


Addendum:
      Here's how "80% dry" worked out: Sure enough, the laundry was better described as heavily damp rather than dripping wet. Oddly enough, every item was neatly folded before being sealed in a big plastic bag. Our T-shirts, our pants, even our underwear was folded into neat little squares. And as expected, we still had to hang it up to finish drying at home. So the lesson here is that in order to do the 80% option you need to be able to go and pick up your laundry as soon as they text you: "Dear customer your laundry is finish already" and you have to have enough space at home to hang it all up when you get it there. It saves us a bundle of money, but it sure doesn't save them any time or trouble. I'm going to suggest they don't need to fold it the next time.

Adventures in notebook-shopping

     My mission: To buy a notebook. Just an everyday sort of notebook, in which I could write lists and notes to myself. Off I went to the Siem Reap Bookshop.

     Notebooks are cheap, but entertaining. I had several styles to choose from:

"Sweet Day
It is writteanon the
 wind thataevery where I go so
 it you really...love me."
Huh?

"Mickcy.
Love is the thing which is pleased at subject that is not good receiving.
Revolu
tionary
dragonfly."
Is that Mickey in drag?

"Music Life.
Similes and laughter are very
contagious, share them with a triend."
I guess similes are contagious, but metaphors are not...?

     Tough choice, but I settled on this one:

"Our finest quality paper
ensures a smooth surface that is please to write on.
This is the most comfortable notebook you have ever run into.
you will feel like writing with it all the time."

  

     It has not disappointed me yet. I do feel like writing with it all the time.

Bike seat for kids, Khmer-style.

Hang on, little one!

We have a bit of a garbage problem...

The government would like to evict families who have built along the Siem Reap River close to town.
As you can see, there are some problems with garbage.
But where would those families go? What would they do when they got there?
Why can't the government just provide some appropriate options for garbage disposal?

Ting Mong

     Ting mong are Cambodian scarecrows placed near a home's front gate to chase away evil spirits, bad luck, disease or death..

     The village in which we work has a cluster of tightly-packed houses, and one dirt lane has many houses with ting mong in front. I'm not sure of the reason for so many in one place. Perhaps there had been an outbreak of some disease or bad luck in the area and everyone was covering their bases.

I think this one's head is made of an old IV solution bottle.

Headless ting mong?

Coconut head

This one's ready for anything with his helmet.

Steve's Pursuit of Happiness

     Before we left home, Steve said he really wanted to simplify his life. He feels reasonably successful, considering he’s been able to give up two things that he doesn’t miss at all: his car, and his pants.

     To be a fair, he does wear pants when he leaves the house. But at home, he pretty much lives in his underwear. Which is not to say that is what Khmer men do at home (I wouldn’t know), but they certainly wear their underwear, or even less, in many more public places than we do at home. 

     When men are fishing on the river or lake, whether in a boat or wading in and out from shore, they often wear only dark-colored bikini underwear, and you see them along the side of the road in such attire with some regularity. Hanging around in front of their homes, or even walking down the road in their village, men are often seen wearing their krama (a cotton scarf) around their waist and nothing more. From our back balcony, we can watch the guy next door bathing at his outdoor water pump, wearing only his krama and coming damn close to removing or losing it completely as he scrubs and rinses.

     So when Steve feels like walking out on that back balcony of ours, he doesn't feel any obligation to wear pants. Just his nice boxer briefs will do fine, out there and everywhere else in the house.

     And when he’s wandering the house in his boxer briefs, he’s very likely to be carrying a racket. Not a tennis racket, as you might have imagined (assuming you wanted to imagine such a scene at all.) He carries a mosquito racket.  It’s shaped like a tennis racket, but it has a lightweight plastic handle and strings of fine metal wire, and a plug at the base of the handle. When fully charged and turned on, you can wave it in the air and it will kill any bug in its path, even ones you didn’t know were there. They sizzle momentarily on the wires, making a dangerous bug-zapping sound. 

     Steve hates mosquitoes, but he loves his mosquito racket. He’s asked me a few times if I’ve tried it yet, and I’ve had to point out that I haven’t had much opportunity, since he uses it all day long. In fact, he often naps with it clutched to his chest. I’ll wage war with the ants, and he can have the Racket of Death all to himself.

     But it’s easy to imagine how much Steve must miss the swing of a real tennis racket punctuated by the satisfying thwap of its connection with a tennis ball. For those who don’t know, Steve was an avid tennis player at home, happiest when he could play four or five times a week. As of today, he hasn’t played for a month. He thought a lot about this possibility before we left home, and wrestled with decisions about whether to bring a racket or two. He sent Jaz off on missions around Siem Reap to see if tennis balls would be available. In the end, ever the optimist, he brought two rackets and a handful of tennis balls.

     In our first few weeks here, his pursuit of tennis has consisted primarily of the pursuit of other tennis players. He asks everyone he meets if they know anyone who plays. Among the ex-pats, he got a few phone numbers, and has begun to make contacts. Since no one has been able to provide him with any hard facts about where to find a tennis court in SIem Reap, he started that search this weekend.

     He had done his homework. He found what looked like a reasonable website with a Siem Reap-oriented message board and posted a question about tennis. No responses. He Googled “Siem Reap+hotel+tennis” and got a few results. The websites of the hotels themselves didn’t give enough information, but he wrote down phone numbers and began to make calls.

     This was what I heard on our end of the first call: “Hello?...Hello. Is this the Something-or-other hotel?.....OK, I’m calling to ask if you have tennis courts……Tennis courts…….(more emphatically) Tennis. Courts……… Do you have tennis courts?......No, I don't want internet, I want tennis court…..No, not internet. Tennis. You know, tennis? Tennis courts?........No, tennis courts. I don't want internet ...........No, not wifi. Tennis courts?…….OK, thanks……”  Steve looked at me, shrugged, and dialed the next number. He was undaunted. I was rolling on the floor.

     He ended up going out on his bike to visit the hotels in person. Some of them actually had tennis courts! (And internet.)

Give it up

I've given up on trying to post well-written blog posts. Now you just get rough drafts. It's part of a bigger process of trading "just right" for "good enough" which is something I aspire to these days. I feel like writing, but I don't feel like editing, so here's what you get from now on.

      There’s a Cambodian holiday coming up. At first I thought it was called Pyeum Benh, then it seemed to be called Pyeum, then I began to understand that maybe the holiday called Pyeum lasts three days and the final day is called Pyeum Benh. Then I was told it really lasts 15 days and the final day is Pyeum Benh. I'm beginning to narrow it down.

     

     What’s this holiday all about, I wanted to know. I was told that everyone goes to their homeland for a ceremony. Details began to fill in: it’s a ceremony to honor ancestors. It’s not really religious, but it is a ceremony that happens at the pagoda. People go home to honor their parents, or their ancestors, or someone. Then I got a long explanation that went something like this: Parents have children and the parents work so hard and so long to provide for and take care of those children. After they die, they might become a ghost (possibly because they valued things like TVs too much, but this was only mentioned by one of the many Pyeum Benh explainers I questioned) and they come back at Pyeum Benh to see if their children will come home to honor them by offering cake at the pagoda. If children don’t do this, they are bad children, and presumably, the ghosts are pissed off. After the ceremony, everyone has a party and drinks beer.

     Cake and beer both sound good to me.

     I asked where the ghosts come from and was told “from hell.” A Khmer who likes to demonstrate his English vocabulary added, “They are imps.” Imps. When was the last time you heard that word?

     I am quite possibly missing some of the nuances. I’ve left out the parts that I didn’t understand at all, which quite likely account for most of the details and a coherent explanation.

     The upshot for us is that we will have three days off work in early October, and we have several invitations to join people visiting their homeland.

      I love the word “homeland.” I think the best definition for it is the place where you grew up and where your parents still live. How many Americans have something that can be called their homeland? I am one of the lucky ones who can say I do, but I seem to have left it far behind for the moment. 

     I guess I'm not going home for Pyeum Benh. I hope my father won't be disappointed.