Mr Robin's Busy Week.

It has mainly been week of rehearsals at school with Wednesday, Thursday and Friday being given over to working on and improving the latest sixth form devised play, a sort of mystery around what happened to the eponymous but very dead Jane.  Prior to that Tuesday involved a day of discovering the top tips for interviews with year tens.  The two classes that I worked with did battle with iPads and made films to demonstrate the best and worst of interviewing but best of all it gave me the opportunity to show the Monty Python Silly Job Interview sketch.


Overall it has been a week packed fully of culture.  On Sunday, at silly o'clock in the morning, I flew to Singapore to meet up with party of six the formers and teachers from my place and enjoy a day packed with Shakespeare.   First show was The Reduced Shakespeare Company's version of The Complete Works followed by a picnic tea and then The Taming of the Shrew.  TTOTS was The Globe Theatre's touring all female production and we saw it in Fort Canning Park.  There is something quite magical about Shakespeare performed outside and the circus like set with live music played by the actors all added to the general showmanship of the play.  The only draw back was that it was this very showmanship that prevented the play from being as hard-hitting as it could have been.   Surely if you are going to create controversial art then you really should make it as challenging for the audience as possible?  Otherwise what is the point?  Please complete answers in the answer booklet and write inside the box in black ink.


Fortunately I managed to avoid the main difficulty that apparently presents itself to all users of public transport in Singapore.  As our party of Drama buffs clambered aboard the very efficient and speedy Singapore rapid transit train form the airport we were greeted by a pre-recorded cheery pubic address system warning us to report any suspicious characters that we noticed.  Various knowing looks were exchanged between our party.


On Monday I left my hotel for the night, the YMCA, where it was quite fun to stay, and took the train to the station nearest to the very grandly titled United World College where I was taking part in a one day Drama teachers' course.  The starting time for the course was 0845 and after a pleasant stroll from the station on a relatively cool morning  I arrived in plenty of time, parents please note, and all was well.  The only minor snag was that I had managed to arrive at the wrong campus.  Arse.  The actual campus that I needed was on the other side of the island, around thirty minutes by taxi away.   When I did arrive there the course was very good: voice work; stage combat and the devising skills.  I was also very impressed with the extremely well-resourced and well kept UWC East Campus.   At least I was able to compare it to the Dover Campus that I had already seen!


It has also been a sporty week too.  I managed to sneak in a gym session on Wednesday, followed by a badminton clash late on Thursday evening and then staff footie after work on Friday.  The net result of all that lot?  Litres of steam sweated off and bit of me aching in a way that I could not have predicted.  As I write I am suffering from bottom cheek ache, hurty back and right shoulder twinges.  Put that all together and it all sounds very suspicious.


New Car With A Chance of Meatballs.


Yes that shiny gold thing parked outside Chateau Lawrence is the latest Lawrence Mobile.  Vintage (2005) Korean engineering in the form of a Kia Rio GL.  Yes, a GL.  I have no idea what that means either but apparently it is a good thing.  Marvellous.   Lexi drove it back from the dealer and nothing fell off, of the car or Lexi, and so we have deemed that to be a first successful journey.   


Taking delivery was of course subject to the usual Malaysian frustrations and confusions.  Mr Andy, the esteemed and very cheerful vendor, had told us that he could deliver said vehicle today.  Great.  What actually happened was the following ... Lexi was phoned by a lady from somewhere or other to do with the car sale or maybe the insurance company asking for her full name, address and passport number, information that we had given to Mr Andy on Saturday.  Lexi was in a meeting so Mr Andy phoned me, and as I was also in a meeting I missed his first call but sneaked out to take his second.  He wanted Lexi's full name, address and passport number, information that we had given to Mr Andy on Saturday.  I agreed to get it sent to him, again, and tried to phone Lexi who had helpfully turned her phone off.  Standing outside my meeting I had a rant and rave at the phone while the head teacher walked past and gave me a curious look.  (I will have to tell him tomorrow that I was in the process of buying a car and I am sure that will explain everything.)  Eventually Lexi switched on her phone again and we made contact.  I sent Lexi's full name, address and passport number to Mr Andy for a second time, information that we had given him on Saturday.  


A little while later, fortunately at the end of my meeting, I spoke to The Great Mr Andy again and agreed to take delivery of the car at 6.00pm.  Wonderful.  6.00pm came and went, as did 6.30 and it's near neighbour 6.40pm.  At 6.43pm my phone rang.  It was Mr Andy asking me where we were.  I asked him the same question and went on to ask when he would actually be delivering the car.  His priceless answer?  "Sorry.  I don't know your address."


We drove the five miles to collect the latest Lawrence Mobile instead.  On arrival the much anticipated charabanc awaited our pleasure but we could not take it away before more formalities were completed.  Further copies of both our passports were taken, various forms were signed and Lexi had to give a thumb print on another form.  Fortunately a DNA swab was not required, although give it time....


There is much controversy among the lunchtime chatter-atti at my school and most of it related to meatballs, of all things.  Under the new cafeteria arrangements if teachers pre-load their ID cards with cash then they receive a 10% discount on food and drinks.  All good.  The other good treatment is that teachers receive an extra meatball on their lunch!  Yesterday I stood politely in the meatball and pasta queue and counted the rather paltry number of meatballs served to the students, two, and considered whether to bother.  I stuck it out though and handed over my plate for pasta in a somewhat resigned manner anticipating my small portion.  But, joy of joys, the server ladled not two but three, yes THREE, meatballs onto my pasta.  Wow, more balls than most!  But I fear a student-led meatball backlash.  Will the school soon have to play host to kids unfurling banners demanding equality of servings?  "Give Us More Balls!", and such like?




Trying to be Decisive, Possibly.

I like to think that Lexi and I can be decisive, but yesterday afternoon that decisiveness was put to the test in the car sales areas of Kuala Lumpur.  Up until August this year Lexi had had a hire car for her school, a five year old Proton Saga.  Valued at around RM20000 ish our 1000 Ringgit per month hire cost, over two years was, not the greatest of deals to have.  Fortunately Lexi was allowed to break her contract this summer and so back went the vehicle.  Yesterday was therefore car buying day.


I had done a bit of the ground work when we came back from our holiday, pricing up a few possibilities while Rupert and Trixie gave opinions about colours.  Too much choice always causes confusion and so we tried our best to keep focused solely on Hyundai cars, ideally a small hatchback and the on the road price had to be under RM 20000.  All good and decisive.  Wonderful.  


But there were so many cars.  Ok lots of them were ruled out because they were way over budget.  It is worth a word or two about car prices here in Malaysia at this point.  New car prices are comparable with the UK.   However used cars depreciate really slowly.  Consequently it is common to see 10 year old cars in excess of £5000.  (In theory it would be possible to import an aged UK car but there would then be big taxes to pay, plus severe restrictions on when and how such a car could be sold on.)  


So there we were with loads of cars and loads of grinning car sellers.  Why are car sellers so delighted to see us, the naive foreigner asks?  The hardened realist knows that we are simply units of commission on legs.   Two hours into our search we had narrowed the selection down to three possibilities, all which, conveniently after haggling had the price of RM20000.  I had done the man thing of looking under the bonnet and not having clue about what I was looking for while taking in sharp intakes of breath.  Lengthy pauses had been allowed between utterances from the sellers and us potential buyers.  Children had fiddled with the stuff that the sellers had lying around on their desks.   But we couldn't decide whether to by the Hyundai Matrix or Getz.  Both had advantages and disadvantages.  After gnashing of teeth, earnest rubbing of foreheads and pacing up and down we finally made a decision.  Run away!  Home sounded far more exciting.  So we left.


On the way back we bought petrol and next to the petrol station was yet another car sales place.  We had one quick look, threw reason and logic out of the window and bought a car that Lexi described as "looking nice."  It had all the necessary things: wheels, roof, seats, engine etc and a massive boot and had a ticket price of RM16500.  After a drive, more looking under the bonnet for no reason whatsoever, and cheery grins and beams from the avuncular sales bloke I offered RM14000 on the road.  Mr Grins, Andy to his mates, said he would have to ask the boss first: a process which involved him looking at another bloke, slightly less cheery than himself who then nodded and the deal was done.  It will be delivered on Monday or Tuesday.


PS.  We managed all this with thumping heads all thanks to a really good fun staff social on the Friday night.  The beer and wine flowed, as did the banter and silliness.  Marvellous.


PPS.  Lexi mainly chose the car because it was gold coloured.

A Quick Visit to Ho Chi Minh City

Currently I am in Vietnam meeting with other Drama teachers from around the region.  We spent today sharing lesson and technology ideas as well as planning the annual Drama festival.  All good stuff.  As well picking up some very good ideas to improve my lessons I also learned how to cross Ho Chi Minh City roads. 

What?  

A friend of mine told that their reliable source reckons there are 37 million motorbikes in Vietnam, a country of around 75 million people.  And those 37 million are much in evidence in this city.  There are many rules of the road, but in reality there appear to be only a few that you need to know: drive on the right; the larger the vehicle the more priority you have and don't stop.  Consequently crossing roads here is not an activity for the faint hearted.  Earlier this evening my colleague from the Ho Chi Minh City took fellow Drama teachers to see the Water Puppets show and then followed that up with a walk and road-crossing lesson.  The rules were remarkably simple.  Watch for a gap in the sliver of two-wheelers and then cross, but don't stop.  Fighting every urge in my safety conscious brain I took her advice and it worked.  Despite having riders scoot past me and at me they all managed to go round me and no injuries were sustained.  Countering over 40 years of learned behaviour is tricky, but then learning new skills is apparently good for one?

Water puppets have apparently been entertaining the Vietnamese since the 1100s and this evening they entertained this UK Drama teacher too.  Six musicians played and sang their way through a range of Vietnamese songs while on top of a large water pool various intricate and highly decorated puppets did their stuff.  Operated by eight unseen puppeteers the puppets included boats and boatmen, fish, farmers, turtles and a pair of mating chickens complete with egg and then hatched chick.  The show culminated In a fire breathing dragon just before the soggy puppeteers took their bows.  It was both charming and curious at the same time.  

One more piece of good news.  The hotel serves bacon, real bacon, for breakfast.  Marvellous.

IKEA Again



I don't like IKEA.  I especially don't like going there twice within two weeks.  The reason for my return visit was to try to buy a chest of drawers for Edwin's mound of stuff as well buying curtain hooks.  I managed the purchases and even bought some new glasses too from the extensive kitchenware section.  The problem with the place is not the dull but intensely practical chic of the furniture nor the unpronounceable and random Swedish names of each  article (why is a bookcase called Billy?).  No.  The problem is that it is soulless in its efficiency.  An escalator glides you into the opening general furniture section and onto a well-worn path through the cavernous store.  Well-worn people drift along this path in their mob-fulls, clutching standard issue yellow IKEA bags.  These poor specimens, the people not the bags, stare vacantly the exhibited items and mutter their approval or disapproval as necessary.  All of this takes place with next to no staff or, bizarrely for Malaysia, security present.

There were more than the expected mobs of people there when I went on Monday morning, at 10.00, hoping to avoid the Bank Holiday crush.  Thousands of others had had the same idea and so to try to beat the drift I attacked the walkways with determination and speed.   Ducking and diving like a moped rider on a Malaysian motorway and carefully making sure that I gave no indication as to my next move, I swiftly found my way to the bedroom-furniture place and wrote down the necessary code number, rack position and section location of the chest of drawers.  I've been there before, see.  Next it was curtain hooks, which proved a bit more tricky.  There were no IKEA staff around to ask but I was successful after scouring every part of the curtain section.   Next it was the glasses.  There was no price on them so I tried to use the self-scan price thing but it didn't appear to work.  I spoke to my first human IKEA worker and asked why the machine didn't do its thing.  He took the glasses, turned the package 90 degrees and scanned it, successfully.  Without a word he handed it back to me.  Efficient.

I dashed on to the warehouse area to collect my chest of drawers, looking in aisle 22, section 12 as required.  I couldn't find the article and so had to ask another IKEA chap.  This one was clutching a clipboard and with the minimum of words showed me where I needed to find the flat-packed wonder.  Next it was paying and it was a similarly word-free experience.  I avoided the self-service ice cream and coffee machines, the last I would have wanted was a chat with the counter staff, and made for the deliveries section.  I gave my address and delivery and assembly was arranged, again without the over use of words.  And that was it.  My car park ticket had been validated, again wordlessly by the checkout operator and I was ready to go.  I felt RM500 lighter about the pocket but much heavier about the soul.

IKEA's efficiency is it's appeal while at the same time the main reason to dislike it.  The buyer goes in, selects their goods, collects the goods from the warehouse, hands over money and then takes their objects away.  Very few words are exchanged, the goods are too practical to have design faults or breakages and so efficiently and soullessly a Swedish conglomerate gets steadily richer while the buying experience gets poorer.

Or am I just and old git?

Clearly I am now officially a year older, although I am once again choosing to be 23.  To help celebrate this all Lawrences hosted a party on Saturday, specifically an egg-and-bacon sandwich party.  We bought loads of bacon, eggs and sliced bread on Friday, as well as beer, and as guests arrived we fried and nattered.  A very nice occasion indeed.  

My official birthday was yesterday.  It was a normal teaching day that was packed with well wishes and chocolate.  I was very pleased to be invited out to coffee by three little Lawrences after school and then it was on to Chilli's for a feed. On the way back I paid a return visit to the phantom key-cutter of Menjalara.  Because it was quite late by then he and his chaos were enjoying another happy hour and appeared to be delighted by the arrival of my thank you beer for his efforts, albeit it failed efforts, to cut a new front door key for the latest Chateau Lawrence.   Naturally I didn't have time to stay for a glass of beer, despite the drinkers'  insistence and promised to return another time.

Cutting Edge Technology and Happy Hour.


Whenever I used to do that really archaic thing of printing off photos I used to visit the local Asda in Wolverhampton or near my former school, Cannock.  Situated right next to the photo counter was a machine that had a mechanized voice which kept calling to photo printers encouraging them to get their keys cut.  The voice was on continual loop and appeared to have taken coaching from the famed, but fake, Barry Scott.  I remember asking a photo-smith if the voice drove him mad after a day at the printer-face.  He answered that he simply blocked it out after a while.  I found the machine's voice highly irritating and hoped never to have to use one.  In a sense though I wish there was and wasn't one locally here in KL.

Our new landlords at number 79 kindly provided us with two keys to the house.  Marvellous.  One for Lexi and I.  Simple.  However we need three.  One for our home help, Shirley.  Simple solution: get another one cut.  I have been to eight different key-cutting places this week and each of them the answer has been the same: "Cannot."  (Incidentally why are key cutting places located on the basement floors of multi-storey car parks?  Are they placed there thanks to a collective cruelty to the people who have just locked their car keys inside their vehicle?  "Well seeing as there is a key-cutting place right next to where I have locked my car with keys inside it that will surely remind that I ought get another set cut, but that doesn't help me get into my car now, does it?")

The eighth venue that I tried was in Bandar Menjalara, not far from home.  A helpful bloke there took a picture of the key on his smart phone and said, in broken English, that he would try to get his supplier to send him the right key to cut.  I went back the next day to find out that that key had not arrived but was assured that it would be there the next day.  No problem.  I returned again, it wasn't out of my way.  Still no replica key on day three so he selected a key that he reckoned was a near fit and had a go at, in his words "modify."  Watched by a Guinness sipping elderly Chinese man there was  much grinding and rasping and then Mr Keys gave me a key that, to my untrained eye, looked pretty accurate, and said "Try first.". He refused any payment.  I took it home and did try first.  Of course, it didn't work.  

I went back for my fourth visit this evening and was greeted almost like an old friend of the family.  Mr Keys was working away, the elderly Chinese man was sipping away on his Guinness and had been joined by another bloke who alternated sips of his beer with puffs on his cigarette.   "This is your fourth time," said Mr Keys.  It felt more like my 104th time.  Still undaunted he tried a different key this time and set to work, insisting that I sat down at the beer table.  "Relax.  Saturday," he said.  "Happy hour."  While Mr Keys grinded I supped the chilled beer with the elderly Chinese man and his younger associate and we exchanged pleasantries.  Perhaps getting a key cut by a well-oiled ironmonger during "Happy Hour" wasn't the wisest of choices but the beers flowed and he assured me, after several more sessions of "cheers" that this time the key would work.  Naturally there was no charge for the key and the chaps refused my offer of buying them another beer.  So I took the key back home having passed a pleasant early evening.  

Of course the key didn't work, but with such fine customer service as I had this evening did that really matter?

Pronunciation Problems and The Big Move

All Lawrences are currently shattered following the big move over a small distance.  We have moved all our stuff from 82 to 79.  While we might have lost numbers we have gained a bedroom and a small patch of garden as well as gaining only a small rent increase.  Thankfully our marvellous home-help did most of the packing for us while we were away leaving us to sort out the bits and pieces.  In tackling those things I managed to fill two large bags that became known as LMS bags (Last Minute Sxxt).


Telecom Malaysia came round to the new Chateau Lawrence today to set up the Internet, phone and TV stuff, but what a palaver it was to get it moved.  I phoned up their office, selected the English language option and explained that we were moving.  Could it be arranged over the phone?  No.  I had to come into one of their offices.  Where was the nearest office?  They couldn't explain.  Try their website.   So on Thursday afternoon children and I went to a TM office in Solaris only to find that it was the wrong sort of TM office.  Instead we had to drive to Bangsar which apparently was the right office.  While twelve staff  milled around in the office one clerk took down the details of my movements, failed to ask for my passport that I was told on the phone I had to have with me, and inputed exactly the information that I had given over the phone.  But the was one crucial addition: a rubber stamp on the order form.  Without that the Lawrence Internet move could clearly not be sanctioned.

Someone who has very definitely not helped in the great move was Kenneth.  This great man was appointed by the agent to the landlord to do the "important checks."  He spent most of his time trying to arrange when to visit us and when he finally arrived spent too long discussing curtains.  Apparently, according to Mr What's The Frequency, all curtains had to be cleaned and scrubbed, with receipts to prove it before he could approve our move.  Once we reminded him that a colleague of Lexi's was taking over the house on the condition that she took it exactly as it was (hence a reduction in the rent price) he seemed to be satisfied.  Great, I thought, it is curtains for you, Mr Kenneth.  Until that is the subject of the electricity bill cropped up.  He wanted proof that we had paid it.  The only way to pay, I was told when arriving in KL, is by bank transfer, and that is what I have done for twelve months.  Not good enough for Mr What's The Frequency who needed receipts.  More long phone calls and texts messages ensued and apparently this insurmountable problem has been solved.  However it is in Mr K's gift to decide how much of our RM2000 utilities deposit we have returned to us.  Maybe I should have simply rubber-stamped Mr Kenneth and sent him back whence he came?

So we are  in 79 along with some unwanted guests.  Head lice.  Once againRupert has generously collected them from someone and shared them with us.  This evening I trogged over to the local chemist to find some treatment and in my clearest English asked for head lice treatment.  The shop assistant looked at me for a moment and paused just long enough to show me that she had misunderstood.  She then led me to a very expensive collection of specialist shampoos and directed my attention to their hair restorative properties.  Stifling giggles I said that I was a bit past hair loss treatment and had to resort to doing a impression of someone with head lice, jumping up and down scratching and grimacing with gusto.  Still she tried to draw my attention to hair loss stuff although thanks to  the intervention of another assistant they finally got the idea that I was after nit gunge and did not want to look like Wayne Rooney or Elton John.  Honestly do I look like a man who wants treatment for hair loss?

Stupid Foreigners in Bangkok.

The following names and words have been made up, but are based on a very real  story.


Alan: Sheila you are never going to believe what happened at the station today.
Sheila:  Which station?
Alan: Hualampong of course.  You know I always park my motorbike taxi there.
Sheila:  Well I was only giving you a chance to set the scene for the story.  Go on.  What happened?
Alan:  Well I was sitting outside near the taxi drivers, you know the ones who always try to rip off foreigners by charging them three times more than the metered fare.
Sheila:  Why don't you rent a taxi by the day, like others?
Alan: Cos you know as well as I do that we can't afford 1200 baht per day plus LPG gas.
Sheila: OK, sorry I asked.
Alan:  So I was just sitting there passing the time of day with Dave and out of nowhere Trevor comes rushing out the station shouting "Quick!  Get ready lads.  Hurry up!"
Sheila:  You haven't been up to no good with that Trevor again have you?  You know what I think of him, don't you Alan?  He didn't get that flash green Honda 250 by ferrying only people around did he?
Alan: Oh give over, Sheil.  Trev's alright.
Sheila: Well I'd never trust a bloke with long hair, wispy moustache and that dodgy grin.
Alan: (getting a bit irritated) Sheila, Trev's  alright.  So he came rushing out the station.
Sheila: And you did what, precisely?
Alan: Listened to what he had to say of course.  "Start you bikes lads we got some silly foreigners who need fast motorbikes.  Stupid idiots have missed their train to Hat Yai."
Sheila: No way.
Alan:  Yes.  There were five of them.
Sheila: Five?
Alan: Yeah.  Hassled, but certainly very pretty, looking wife, three kids.  Two boys, one of the wearing a blue football shirt that I had never seen before, and then the stunningly handsome and adventurous father.
Sheila: A priest?
Alan: No you twit. The bloke.  It turns out this bloke has mis-read his train ticket departure time and missed the train to Hat Yai.
Sheila: Missed by hours did he?
Alan: No, minutes.  He spoke fairly decent Lao too so we could exchange a few words.  He thought the train left at 1600 but, because his parents had always told him to be early for public transport, he and his family arrived just over an hour early.  Missed the train by minutes.  It had gone bang on time at 1445.
Sheila: Silly fool.
Alan: You should have heard what Trevor called him.
Sheila: I've told you I don't like you associating with that Trevor.  I'm going to have a word with Dave's wife. I know she will knock some sense in to him and persuade him to stop hanging around that Trevor.
Alan: Well you might have to wait 'til she has spent Dave's extra 500 baht.
Sheila: (interested now) Go on.
Alan: Well do want to see mine?
Sheila: Alan I have seen it lots of times before.  And your mother's in the front room.
Alan: No.  Not that.  My 500 baht.
Sheila: What?
Alan: That's right.  500 baht.  That what those stupid foreigners paid me, Dave and Trevor, each, for helping them out.
Sheila:  So what did you do, Al?
Alan:  Well Trev says we'll beat the train to fifth station out of Hualampong.  So, quick as we could, Trev put the two boys on his Honda.  Smallest one on the petrol tank, biggest on the back and squeezed one of the bags between himself and the big lad.
Sheila: Right.
Alan:  Dave took one of the cases and shoved it in the step through bit of his bike.  He then put the hassled, but certainly very pretty, woman on the back and slid the little girl between them.
Sheila:  Was she a blond girl?
Alan:  Yeah.
Sheila:  Ah.  I hope you chucked her under the chin.  You know how foreign children loved being chucked under the chin by every Thai, Cambodian, Malaysian and Chinese person that they see.
Alan: Don't worry.  Course I did.  And then the stunningly handsome and adventurous father clambered gracefully on to the back of my bike while I shoved his case in my step through bit.  Somehow or other he managed to hold onto another case, wear a rucksack and hold very tightly on to me and the back handle of the bike.
Sheila: Skilled and handsome, you say?
Alan:  He was not your type love.  He was bald.
Sheila:  Oh, bless.  Well you know what they say about bald men?  They have big....
Alan:  Sheila!  My mother is next door!  So, we are all loaded up and Trev shouts "Follow me lads!  We'll beat the train."  And he roars off into the distance.  You should have seen the look on the woman's face.
Sheila:  Worried was she?  
Alan: Ah she had nothing to worry about.  Trevor's a good rider and Dave's motorbike is pretty safe.  Trev used to race bikes for a while.
Sheila:  And we know why he stopped, don't we.
Alan: Well I did me best to keep up, and so did Dave, but we couldn't.  He was just too fast.  It was good fun though.  We weaved between taxis, overtook everything on the road.  We even out-ran a few really posh saloons too.  Ok we did get a bit too close to a bus.  I never realised quite how hot those rear engines get, especially when you are only inches from them.
Sheila:  Tell me you  got to the fifth station out of Hualampong safely?
Alan:  Yes, we did.  Trev got there five minutes before everyone else and as me and Dave rounded the corner I saw him coming out of the station, big grin on his face.  Turns out the foreigners had got to the station with three minutes to spare.  It's high fives all round.
Sheila:  Flukey foreigners more like.
Alan: So we unload and then Trev tries to sort out the cash.  I would have been happy with a couple of hundred baht.  250 tops.  Trev asks then for 1000 for each of us!  Eventually we settled for 1600 between us.  Trevor pockets the extra hundred.  Well  it's only fair.  Woman says something about needing to leave some cash for food on the train and that.
Sheila:  So they got on the train then?  
Alan: Yeah.  Calm as you like.  Trev walks them on to the platform just as the train is announced.  Handshakes all round.  The stunningly handsome and adventurous father mumbles something about needing a beer and the train pulls in.
Sheila:  So alls well then?
Alan: Yes indeed, my love.
Sheila:  I always liked that Trevor.  

Mr Hong


How does a 55 year old man end up living rough on a beach in Cambodia?  And how come he has lost his lower right arm?  And how come he speaks fluent English with an American accent?  And how come he is smiling?  And why did he ask the Lawrence clan for a few dollars on Friday morning?  

Well we could have just handed over a few dollars and that would have been that.  Instead there were far too many questions that I wanted answers to so I invited Mr Hong to eat at the excellent Dara's Beachside bar with us that evening at 7.00pm.   He arrived at 7.15pm.  I was concerned that he was not coming but he said that he would not miss out on a meal as he was hungry.

So what about answers to those questions?  Hong had arrived in Sihanoukville 
four days earlier from Phnom Penh after being told, effectively, to get out of town having previously been told to leave Siem Reap.  He had finally been put on a bus to Sihanoukvile and told go to find his family as that was where he was originally from.   Not an easy thing to do for a man who left, or rather escaped, Cambodia in 1975.

Aged 16 he found himself under the supervision and re-education of The Khmer Rouge.  In the camp he met another man, Sok, who was so convinced his number was up that he expected to be killed the following day. The two of them escaped under the cover of darkness and spent the next 32 days travelling through jungle, going west until they found themselves inThailand.  Hong spent five years in a Red Cross camp inThailand where he learned Thai and rudimentary English.  Best of all, he was alive.  

In 1980 he was given the opportunity to be resettled in Ohio, an opportunity that he jumped at.  He worked for his sponsor in their shop for three years before moving to the west coast to work in computer assembly and electronics.  He married and had three children.  All was going well.

On a planned journey north to Canada he was involved in a car crash.  Skidding on black- ice his car spun, hit another car and killed some of the occupants.  The prosecution claimed he was under the influence of alcohol, Hong contested their claim, lost and was sentenced to 32 years to life in a jail in California.  During the accident he sustained injuries so bad to his right arm below the elbow that it could to be saved.  

That should have been the end of the story.  Just another prisoner.  But there 
was more.  Was it cost saving?  Was it humanitarianism?  Or was it simply to try to reduce the number of prisoners?  Hong isn't sure why but he was offered the opportunity to be deported from America back to Cambodia.  He took it.  And so after three years in jail and 32 years in America, he found himself back in Phnom Penh.  With US $100 given to him by the Cambodian Immigration Department, courtesy of the Americans, he was told to go home to his family. 

Easier said than done.  Hong's father had been a high-ranking official so he knew that all of his immediate family would have been killed.  Hearing of a distant cousin that might be in the Siem Reap area he travelled there.  He didn't find them but did find work as tour guide, putting his excellent English to good use.  He was doing well.  It all that came to an end when challenged by the police to produce his tour guide qualifications. Having none, other than his knowledge and language, he was told to go.  After a similar turn of events happened in Phnom Penh he washed up on the beach in Sihanoukville.

We leave Sihanoukville in the morning but hope that the few little bits that we have done will help get him back on his own feet.  He is keen to work and has plenty of business ideas so I took him to a local printers and helped get some business cards made, put some credit on his phone and bought a clip battery charger for him.  I also introduced him to a local NGO that Lexi and I had spotted.  

We all had dinner together again this evening and I certainly feel that we have done something useful.  As we sat eating a beach masseur approached Hong and asked if he could teach her son some English.  She told us that her eldest son is working away in Vietnam and so she doesn't see him but she wants her youngest to learn as much English as he can so that he can get a good job.  At $1 dollar an hour Hong's planned rates are very reasonable and as he handed over his business card I felt a little feeling of hope.

Hong may have been a rogue?  Who knows.  But surely everyone deserves a chance, especially those who want more than anything else to help themselves and others.  We left him this evening with hugs, the remains of tonight's excellent dinner and enough money, $7, to buy a gas stove so that he can cook noodles for himself.   

Here's hoping for Mr Hong.

Bus Journey Phnom Penh to Sihanokville. In Flight Entertainment.


As we are finding out road travel in Cambodia takes a long time.  The roads are all single carriageways that are just big enough for coaches and lorries to pass each other as well the countless mopeds, hand tractors, bicycles, minivans and the like.  When we booked and paid for our $7.5  tickets at the booking office, conveniently next door to our guest house, the booking clerk told us that the journey time for the 200km journey would be about four and a half hours.  It was quite a cute moment though as crawling around on a blanket behind him was his sixth month old daughter.  His wife looked on while eating a bowl of noodles.

Departing at exactly 1230, the allotted time, the first hour and a half of our journey involved us driving around the bus stations of Phnom Penh collecting passengers and then negotiating the rutted road out of the city.  Most of Cambodia's main roads are sealed although several in the capital are not.  This meant a very bumpy and extremely dusty journey out of the centre.  We were sealed inside our aircon charabanc but it was the residents, traders and stall holders eking out an existence next to the dust clouds that I felt really sorry for.

To pass away some of the time on the journey the conductor played a couple of films.  Lovely.  The first dubbed in to Cambodian from the original Chinese involved certain dodgy characters driving early 1980s American cars and periodically trying to beat each other to a pulp via the medium of one martial art or another.  The set piece ending, about forty minutes, saw the battle move into a warehouse where the the only stored goods were thousands of boxes of Camel cigarettes and several hundred live chickens wandering around thinking to themselves "Shouldn't we be in a scene from The Dukes of Hazard?"  One particularly ferocious lady wearing scarlet leggings performed incredible feats of agility against a white guy wearing a navy blue shell suit jacket.  He swung a big gold sword at her and consistently missed while she flailed with all limbs and consistently failed to land one on him either.  The film ended with a freeze frame of her in mid air for some reason apparent only to the director.  Some chickens may have been injured or emotionally scarred.

After a meal break the next cinematic offering was served.  In this film, again dubbed out of Chinese with the words spoke by the same actors it seemed, the heroine sat down to look at something on her laptop while sitting on her bed.  Clearly not an expert in Chinese ghost films she failed to notice a pair of very large hands appear from under the bed.  The hands grabbed her ankles while she let out a very badly acted scream.  Another hand, could it have been the bed monster's third arm, then proceeded to show that it was a monster of the modern era as it typed out a message on the laptop screen.  I rather lost patience with this nonsense at that point but thought it only fair to read some of the English subtitles.  The film had the desired effect of dulling my senses on the long journey but it had clearly forced the translator to turn to the bottle.  What appeared in English bore little or no resemblance to what was going on on the screen.  Shortly after the hand monster had typed its missive the heroine's boyfriend/brother entered and apparently said "You have a good heart.  Always drink you milk."  He then went on to ask her the question that many of us ask all the time "How are you friend?  Always ah."  And then there were more lactose related matters to be solved before our heroine and her, now female friend, set about committing a murder for a reason clear to someone in the know.  I must check to see whether this film is for sale on Amazon.