Home is Where Your Heart is…

By Kinero Tan

As I boarded a bus leaving Bangkok, entering Cambodia through Poi Pet, the same way my family left the country 26 years ago to escape the horrors of the Khmer Rouge, my mind was flooded with mixed emotion. To be completely honest, I wasn’t quite certain that day of exactly what I was in search of. However, my instincts led me to believe, that answers were somewhere in Cambodia’s muddy gravel roads, never ending rice fields, in the sincere smiles on the faces of Khmer farmers, daughters, mothers and children, in the erratic rain, in a sea of street vendors, food carts, tuk tuk drivers, and the ordered chaos of unforgiving traffic… among the aromas of dried fish in the meat market, from the smells of durain, lemongrass, lime leaves, curry, and amok in traditional Khmer dishes, in the untold stories of my family members who never left the country, answers I was determined to unveil.

I am the youngest of six children and the only to be born in the United States.  My father comes from a northwest province of Cambodia, called Battambang.  He was once a successful orange farmer and still a greatly respected man in his district.  He often made trips to the surrounding cities and distributed produce to local markets.  During a stop in Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia, he would find the eyes of a beautiful Chinese street vendor, and the pages that followed this chapter in his life would be filled with love, children and happiness.  But like the unpredictable weather during the wet seasons, the years of prosperity would be abruptly washed away with the rain…

From 1975 to 1979 the Khmer Rouge would overtake the country, claiming the lives of 2 million + people. Led by Pol Pot, this guerrilla group would rise from the northeastern jungles and systematically dismantle and destroy Cambodia in the name of a communist agrarian ideal.  We now know this period as the Cambodian Holocaust. 

During this time, my family would be stripped of everything they owned.  They would experience and witness the hardships of concentration camps, forced labor, disease and famine. They spent seven grueling days and nights fleeing to the safety of Poi Pet, a Thai refugee camp. On January 18^th, 1984, after 2 years in Poi Pet, their dreams of hope would finally be answered by a sponsorship through the American Red Cross. Then a flight halfway around the world would carry them to Longview, WA where opportunity, along with a new definition of struggle awaited them.

Given my families will to survive and my parent’s ability to more than successfully raise 6 children in a foreign land, put 5 boys through college, and exceed all odds, I feel incredibly privileged and blessed to be standing again where the story originally began.

It’s been a little over a month since I touched down and I’ve found myself more than occupied.  Between volunteering at Panasastra University, assisting with projects under Global Student Outreach and spending time with my relatives who still occupy my father’s old orange farm, everyday is new adventure.

Scenes from the farm…

Barefoot soccer, I’ve been out the last couple weeks due to an ankle injury

My relatives and I at temple during one of Cambodia’s national holidays

My favorite thing to do is to wake up early in the morning and ride out into the countryside. Staring out to an endless sea of flooded rice field as the sunrises is an incredible spectacle.  On a few occasions, I’ve found clear skies with scattered heavy rain clouds…

Flash Showers as visitors wait for sunset atop Bahkseng Temple in Siep Reap Daily Travel Photos

Volunteering at Panasastra, one of the Universities in Battambang and helping to shape the lives of young adults has been a fun and rewarding experience.  The students and staff have taught me so much about the cultural nuances of Cambodian people, and my Khmer is becoming better with each day.

Some of my students and I at PUC

Global Student Outreach is a non-profit organization that provides community service opportunities for students and adults in Cambodia.  They have a lasting commitment to helping the underprivileged children in this country.  Breath of Cultures shares a close relationship with GSO and I am personally thrilled to be here helping with their current efforts in sponsoring and caring for 15 orphans in the Chheu Teal district of Battambang.

Here are some of the GSO orphans proudly standing in front of their new home

Working on the ground level with Global Student Outreach has been eye opening.  In my first week, I went along on rides to visit the homes of potential orphans. It was hard to fathom the world that these children have been brought up in.  Unsanitary accommodations, hungry and left to fend for themselves… some haven’t seen their parents for months and are beginning to wonder if they will ever come back at all.  As each orphan departs on the long car ride to their new homes, quietly avoiding contact, nestled in the corner, with one hand gripping the handle of the car door for some type of reassurance, I could only imagine the tears in their eyes are those of fear, of sadness, of anger, of frustration, and I would like to think of hope.  As the weeks progress, I get to see the transition of these children who have made new friends at the orphanage, fed 3 square meals a day, given new clothes, a bike to ride to school, there first ever toothbrush, and more importantly, someone who will look after them and make them laugh and smile for all the years that laughter was lost.

Click the link to see how you can help Global Student Outreach

As I ride through the city streets and watch the world around me, I can’t help but see this place, these people and the city’s character running through me. I have learned so much about myself, my family and what it means to be Khmer. But above all, when I leave, I leave with a deeper understanding for who my father is and what he stood for. And while 9,000 miles separate us at the moment, I’ve never felt closer to him, than I do now.  What once was a cultural barrier, is now a common interest and I can only see our communication and relationship continue to grow.

They say home is where your heart is… Cambodia, will forever be in my heart.

Sleepless Nights in Madrid

By Kinero Tan

This post is dedicated to all the amazing people I met in Madrid!

When it didn’t matter how old you were, how much money you had in your pocket, the time on your wristwatch, or the day of the week.  You didn’t worry about booking hostels, catching trains, or checking out.  We owned the night, and belted out, to six strings of a guitar . . . no women no cry, to a sleepless night in Madrid

When it didn’t matter what language you spoke, the color of your skin, or in what god you did or didn’t believe.  We told our stories, shared our dreams, and carried our conversation into the sun.  It didn’t matter if you were best friends reunited, met last night, or had no proper introduction.  At the moment, we had liters of sangria, plenty of laughter and we didn’t have to say goodbye . . .We had a sleepless night in Madrid

Running of the Bulls . . . a beautiful disaster

By Kinero Tan

Every year on July 6^th, millions of people gather in Pamplona for a nine-day festival, where hundreds of adrenaline junkies get their fix by running ¾ of mile alongside 6 massive bulls.  Spectators rise each morning of the festival before 8AM, to watch from the sidelines and the safety of their balconies.  The locals call it El Enciero (literally translated “the enclosing”- taking these wild creatures through the course to be enclosed into the bull ring) . . . although the majority of us know it as the “Running of the Bulls.”

On July 10^th I sat on the beaches of Barcelona, soaking in rays and enjoying the company of my friends.  Even in the midst of the most relaxing phase of my journey, Pamplona was constantly stirring in my thoughts.  The anticipation offered an array of mixed emotions from anxiety and fear to pure excitement of potentially crossing off this event from the bucket list.  I listened to a collection of stories from veteran participants, with endings ranging from blissful to horrific.  I watched the youtube videos, and had done the research, yet nothing could have prepared me for what was to come.

Before arriving to the San Fermin Festival, I would spend one night in Bilbao, a smaller Spanish city just west of Pamplona.  I was privileged to find myself in Spain as they battled it out in the 2010 World Cup finals.  I made my way to the center of town, found a lively bar to sit down in, and shared travel stories with some blocs from Manchester, England who had pure love for the sport, as well as drinking endless pints of beer.

They taught me a drinking game that night, I promised to take with me to the states.  It consisted of taking a coin and throwing it into a friend’s glass as the group chanted, “Save the Queen, Save the Queen, Save the Queen” . . . the victim would drink until the jar was empty, ensuring that the Queen was safe from drowning. Needless to say, we had a lot of jars that night!

In the 116^th minute Andres Iniesta scored a goal that would erupt the entire country, a moment that would surely go down in the history books.  Celebration in the streets went late into the night with fireworks flying, drums beating, horns honking, and the unforgettable chant that still rings through my head weeks later, “Yo soy Espanol, Espanol, Espanol!”

After spending time in different parts of the country, I’ve come to learn that there is a great divide among the regions.  For example, Barcelona citizens for several years have been fighting to preserve their culture and regain independence.  Their claim being, “ We are Catalunya, not Spain.” Many northern cities including San Sebastian, Bilbao, and Pamplona consider themselves to be Basque Country.  That being said, on July 11, 2010 it did not matter what region you came from.  As you can see in this picture the Spanish flag flew high in the streets, and the locals sang, “I am Spanish, Spanish, Spanish!”  This was an especially unforgettable moment for me, as I embraced a country that would unite under the game of futbol.

Despite the minimal sleep from the previous nights celebrations, I was far too excited to feel restless as I boarded the bus to Pamplona dressed in the traditional San Fermin festival attire.

I hit the streets running, and never looked back.  If I could sum up this town, this festival and how these people partied, it was like “Las Vegas on a Redbull overdose.”

In the hot Spanish summer sun, calimocha (mixture of red wine and coke on ice) was the best way to stay cool.  The narrow cobble stone roads were shoulder to shoulder with marching bands, drum circles, endless rows of bars, people drenched in sangria, and no reason needed to party like it was 1969. The firework displays made the 4^th of July look like child’s play, cocktails were poured with an extremely heavy hand, and there was a hazy grey area between taking a siesta and just simply passing out!

Like many others who didn’t know better than to book accommodations for Pamplona months in advance, I found myself sleeping in the park, amongst hundreds of people who were trying to get at least a couple hours of rest before waking up to participate in what we all really came for, “Running with the bulls.”

As I attempted to shut my eyes with two hours to game time, my heart was racing and my mind began to wonder.  Unable to sleep, I walked away from the park bench, towards the sound of drums and back into the city lights.

I sat and watched the bulls sleep for at least a good hour . . .

I checked my watch at 7:50AM and the next 10 minutes would be the longest of my life. I tried to plan my starting place strategically, understanding that at some point 6 bulls would pass me and I would need to run quickly after them to make it into the arena before they shut the doors.  This was my personal goal.

The first gunshot was fired and I knew this meant the first bull was out of the gate.  20 seconds later another shot was fired signifying the last bull was out of the gate.  I stood in the middle of the road and jumped in the air 6 times to look over the crowd of runners to see if the bulls were coming.  I clearly remember on the sixth jump, seeing a mob of people frantically moving towards me, and the horns of the first bull in the pack.

There was a moment during that run where time stood still . . . when an 1100 lb bull stood by my side, his horn the size of my entire arm, froth dripping the sides of its mouth, and the sound of profanities in every language you could imagine.

Being next to something so wild and massive and watching as it passed me, I could feel the fear among those around me.  As soon as the last bull passed I ran as fast as my sangria fueled legs would allow.  I made it into the arena . . . I stared at complete strangers with no words but a mutual understanding. The joy that surrounded us was indescribable; as if we were victorious gladiators, sweat dripping, sun beating on our faces, and a packed arena with thousands cheering from the stands.

To my surprise only seconds later, they shut the gates and released 6 vacas (female version of the bulls) one at a time.  They cover the horns of the bull with something like a rubber stopper, so they couldn’t gore us, slice there ass slightly before letting them out of the gates to run around after 150 clowns that dare to stay in the arena.  Now that I think about it, probably the dumbest thing that I’ve ever done, at the same time one of the best experiences of my life.