The ongoing horror of Svay Pak

'High Street' Svay Pak

I feel sick to my stomach. I steady myself against the wall, and breathe for a moment.

“This was on the wall when we got here,” he says, motioning to a sketchy hand drawn princess. Something any little girl would've drawn.

“We left these rooms as they are to show people what it was like.” The stalls (the term 'room' is misleading) are tiny, with a simple bed, a curtain for a door, and no roof. No privacy. Nowhere to hide. No escape from the noise. No escape from what they had become.

“And upstairs, was the pink room...”

The last few days has been a learning experience.

This time, I knew of the Cambodian history.

I didn't know how it would effect me. I didn't know how it affected the present Cambodia.

Come with me to Svay Pak. Walk down the dusty street, lined with run-down (so, normal) looking shops. See the regular smiling kids walk about the place.

There's nothing to immediately discern the place from any of the other poor areas around Phnom Penh.

We walk into a modest sized hall, with colourful paintings on the walls.

It's a friendly place, kids noisily moving about the room. There's a large colour-filled 'Good Shepherd' painting on the wall.

We're led around, shown the rooms where they hold the kids club, english lessons, pre-school... It's all madly familiar to me. Just like the YWAM centre in Bacolod, Philippines that I spent time in when I was ten.

Across the street is a gym. There's some of the skinniest gym-users I've ever seen pumping iron, and chatting with their mates in their baseball caps and singlets.

“We run a kick-boxing program, and a weights and PT program too,” says Isaac.

“It's a great way to get the guys interested. Some of them have actually gone on to kick-box professionally.”

He smiles.

To come from a poverty stricken neighbourhood, to now being able to support himself and his family, and keep his sisters out of brothels... “It's a cool story, actually...”

We walk down the street to another hall. 'Rahab's House' is emblazoned across the facade.

“This is the original centre,” says Isaac.

“The building was rented by Don when they first started up in Svay Pak. It was abandoned at the time, and central to the town. It needed some work, though, because it was last used as a brothel.”

I knew this. I joked to Isaac about the dark irony of the building... and then immediately the gravity of the situation took hold of me.

Shut up, Josh, I thought. There's nothing funny here...

“When they moved in they knocked down most of the stalls, as you can see...”

I walk along the wall. I can see the ends of the brickwork, marking out the tiny stalls.

“...but we left a few of them here, so that people could see how it was. And we left this...”

The curtain is drawn back, and I see the picture on the wall.

Psychologists will tell you that abused children invent imaginary friends, or even different lives in their mind to escape from extreme abuse.

It's clear that this room was occupied by a child, but in her physical surroundings - her detainment - there are some things she couldn't escape from. She was a slave. With no rights and no future. She was there to please her captors, the wardens and any man who walked through the door.There are some things she couldn't escape from.

I feel physically sick. “Upstairs,” says Isaac, “was the pink room, where you could buy a virgin.”

Just eight years ago, this was a house of pain. Now it's a house of restoration. I'm trying to grasp hold of that, but it's seriously doing my head in.

It was around eight years ago that the initial raids in Svay Pak occurred. The obvious brothels were closed, the owners were arrested, and some of the sex-slaves were released from their effective bonds.

But the unfortunate truth of how things are in Cambodia, is that within a week nearly everyone had been released from prison.

The sex trade returned to Svay Pak, only now it had been pushed underground.

Harder to see, harder to infiltrate, and just as evil as ever.

“What we have now, is someone sitting in a cafe, waiting for a pimp to walk past and set up a deal.” says Isaac. “Now some of the major hotels in Phnom Penh will set up the deal for you, and arrange for the child to be brought to your room.”
The paedophillic sex tourism industry in Cambodia is alive and well.

The UN states that 80% of Cambodia's “Sex Workers” are between 12 and 18 years old. The reality of the situation is that the term 'workers' isn't a true description of many of the girls. Being a 'worker' suggests a choice in the matter, some sort of rights, and a basic wage.

What actually happens to many of the girls (and boys) is that they are sold into the industry by their impoverished parents, or lured across the border from Vietnam to nannying or domestic worker positions that don't exist.
Once they've been taken by a pimp or brothel, they are no longer a worker.

They're a slave, plain and simple.

They have no choice in coming and going, no choice on yes or no. They are an object for someone else to exploit.

The facts that come out of Svay Pak are staggering.

Reports of girls as young as six being sold are common. Children are bought and sold, traded across the Thai and Vietnamese border like some sort of commodity. Entire factories are run on slavery. During our tour, Isaac tells me of a woman who has been enslaved in a brick factory for twenty years in an attempt to pay off a $200 debt.

The whole situation is being taken advantage of not just by sex tourists, but by locals as well, and kept open by corrupt government officials turing a blind eye. Of course, soliciting children is illegal in Cambodia, but the arrests are few and far between. Examples of handcuffs 'slipping off' on the way to the courthouse are the rule rather than the exception.

Rahab's House has many stories of 'rescue-raids' being foiled by corrupt police.

The last time it happened, the rescue targets were two enslaved girls; one 12, one 14. The day before the raid two uniformed officers walked into the house and notified the owner of the planned action. The house was raided the next morning, and the girls were nowhere to be found. These stories are commonplace.

When I first found out about Cambodia's history, I read an article in which the author explained the extreme levels of injustice as such:

'The evil of the Khmer Rouge lives on within the people that it was inflicted upon.'

It made sense to me. In a land where all the intellectuals, policy makers, teachers, and anyone of employable intelligence/book knowledge was murdered, there was no-one left to guide those who remained. Think of the pillars of society in your own communities- Mayors, Clerics, counsellors... Anyone seen as a threat to the Khmer Rouge was eliminated. Many of the children were left without parents. A lot of those that survived moved into crime and prostitution out of not just desperation, but because there was literally no other option. The only people in Cambodia with money were soldiers.

You are now faced with the result of an entire generation that was raised without guidance.

Isaac put it quite simply: Many of the people lack a moral compass. As a result, we have parents that would sell their children, and wage-earning government officials that would accept a bribe rather than liberate a child.

But fortunately, the story doesn't stop there.

Because despite the setbacks and constant frustrations, there are people who were outraged enough to put themselves in the middle of all of this and do something about it. Little by little, things in Svay Pak are changing. It's slow, hard work, and work that needs our support.

“One of the biggest problems is that people don't know about Svay Pak,” says Isaac.

“The pedophiles know. They know it's somewhere they can come and have sex with a little kid.”

I feel physically sick. Again.

To those who know me, I ask as a personal favour to me that you share this story with your friends, work mates, team mates and families.

It's been too long that Svay Pak has been famous to the perpetrators alone.

We can change this.

Joshua Welsh

no1welsh@gmail.com

This interview was arranged by Change Your World, a group set on highlighting the issues of modern day slavey in Asia today.  www.changeyourworld.com.my

For more information on Rahab's House see http://agapewebsite.org/projects/rahabs-house/

"It would've been a good school."

I first landed in PP in about March this year. I play football with a bunch of expats in Malaysia, and we'd arranged for a friendly against a bunch of expats in Cambodia. It was only a weekend thing, footy match, then an after match bar, and that was about it. I liked the vibe of the place- the people were friendly enough.

I didn't know anything about the history of the place. I sat up late on the computer researching it the night after I got back. As I was reading, I realised I'd noticed the disturbing lack of old people.
I remember the chills going down my spine.

If you're like me, and don't know what happened here within the last 35 years, then do some research. And then send an angry letter to your world history teacher.

This trip was going to be a little bit different.

I'd looked into visiting the Killing Fields. I wasn't too sure how I felt about it.

Both the Killing Fields and S-21 are now owned by a Japanese mob, and I'm not very sure about where the money goes. I think Cambodians have suffered enough without being robbed as well. I was pretty decided on not visiting either of the places.

I think it was boredom that got us in the end, and we found our way to S-21.

S-21 was a detention/interrogation centre where suspected traitors of the Khmer Rouge were house and inevitably executed. KR were very good at keeping records, so we can ascertain quite clearly that of the 20,000 inmates that entered, only 7 came out alive. All of the prisoners were photographed on entry, measured, weighed. The records are plastered all over the three main buildings that S-21 consists of.

Like many things in Asia, once you've passed the first few things, everything starts to repeat itself, and it gets a bit same-same. You start to gloss over.

I didn't want that. It didn't feel right to view the place without being shocked, traumatised even.

The whole place gave me chills.

S-21 was originally built as a school. The classrooms hastily and fairly crudely converted into some twisted asian version of Guantanamo Bay.

It still looks like a school. Just a non-descript set of white buildings. Creepily, there's still a set of varying height monkey bars in the yard.

Just like Drysdale Primary.

We walked back out the tuk-tuk, past the beggars and landmine victims. The legacy of the past still remains in Phnom Penh. The KR may have left, but the recovery isn't even close to complete.

We sat on the bike in silence and started our way back to the hostel.

"It would've been a good school," said Steve.

Once upon a time.

I began to think of the people who built it. The town planners, the teachers. The parents of the students.
A school is always a community within a community. Imagine how you would feel, the investment that you made into your community being used as a slaughter house?

The reality is that all of those teachers were either displaced or killed. Anyone with an education was seen as a threat to Communism.

Those parents, planners, and teachers lay silent in the graves of the Killing Fields.


It's not something that's easily put to words.

Friends, beaches, dodgey parachutes

The end of September saw a fantastic change in schedule for the Welsh household abroad, with a few visitors making the trip across the seas for a stay in the condo.

I think we managed to put Malaysia's best foot forward: between noisy markets, the open air seafood and stray cat awesomeness that is Nong and Jimmy's Thai BBQ, and probably the best nightspot in KL, the 57^th floor establishment of Merinis, we managed to encompass the opposite ends of the spectrums that we experience on a weekly basis.

Malaysia has a growing middle class, but it's still a country of extremes. It takes a while to get your head around the excess of Ferraris and Porches parked on one side of the road, and the construction site filled with Bangladeshi workers who make probably $200 per month on the other.

I maintain that you can see all of KL that you need to within three or four days. At a pinch, you could cram it into 48 hours without missing too much of the action, and only gain two inches to your waistband.

Anyhow.

We packed our visitors in the Volvo, and headed to Langkawi. Via the airport.

There we met Mr. Andre, the Dutch owner of Sunset Valley, where we were staying.

Mr. Andre was sailing around the world on his yacht with his wife when he pulled into port in Langkawi.

That was seven years ago, and he hasn't left since. Understandable, because he lives in one of the most beautiful tropical valleys I've had the pleasure of staying in. He rents out five or so restored traditional wooden Malay houses on his property, surrounded by rice paddies, green hills, and birds that don't seem to sleep.

The place was unreal. But next time, I'm bringing ear plugs.

Pantai Cenang is particularly nice at sunset. Sitting on the beach, have a refreshing non-specific drink while you watch the fat tourists go parasailing... it's awfully easy to get used to.

We stuck a sweet deal for parasailing ourselves, and for about $50AUD Jem, Josh P and myself went for a lovely glide over the bay.

Seeing all the other tourists fly up, out, around, and back onto dry land successfully, I figured I'd take the opportunity to take some shots from the air.

I tied the camera to my arm for safe keeping.

That worked pretty well.

The camera stayed tied to my arm on takeoff. I took some great sunset shots, I got a shot of some swimmers waaaay underneath me, and I took a fantastic vertically-held shot of the sky, the islands, the boat, and my feet, and when we dry the camera out, I might be able to confirm whether or not you could see the tow rope coiling up in the ocean as the boat ground to a halt, and I splashed down into the sea.

On the plus side, we were thinking about getting another camera anyway. And they gave me a second ride for free!

Langkawi finished up with a local market supplied dinner by the pool, with the sun setting over the valley. You can't get much better than that.

The next trip will be a little different. I'm going to Cambodia, and visiting Svay Pak, the home of sex slavery and people trafficking in Asia. I'm meeting the man who's trying to stop it. Should be interesting...

It's Friday

Righto, let's give this regular update thing a shot.

I've started volunteering at Jem's school, and I think I may be enjoying it. Kids are pretty funny, even the 16 year old ones. They're smarter than I remember which although slightly intimidating, makes for some good conversations. Early days, but I think I could get into this teaching thing. Plus one of the sixteen year olds told me that having me as a teacher “would be sick”, which, if I remember correctly...  is good.

I'm writing this while sitting on a chartered bus, going to the airport to be an extra in an ad for Malaysian Tourism. It's funny because we've encountered a bit of traffic, due to the bus driver not using the massive and never choked toll road that goes almost directly from our place of departure to our destination.

So rather than pay probably 5rm in tolls, he'll pay probably 20rm extra in fuel and take an extra half an hour in transit time. I like that this is the preceding action before shooting an ad about how awesome Malaysia is.

Wait on.. we have a development. He has now turned onto the MEX, which, you should know, is the best motorway to take. Which means he wasn't avoiding tolls, he just didn't know the right way to get from KL's largest train station to KL's largest airport. Yep, still funny.

I think we have living fairly well down pat now. Mrs Welsh and can eat a fantastic meal of tandoori chicken, garlic naan, and tosai masala (washed down of course with refreshing iced lime tea) for 20rm (about $7) at our favourite mamak. I can buy Australian fillet steak for $10 a kilo, and a slab of duty free Tiger, which tastes almost exactly like beer, for $28. We also have a contact for discount wine and spirits.

Our contact ('cos every white guy has a booze guy) doesn't import duty free beer via fishing boat from Langkawi like everyone else does, rather he has his own importing licence and runs his business from home. I can buy most things off him for duty free prices, and it's delivered to my door free of charge in the boot of his Proton.

I had a good chat to booze man Kamal one day, as he gave me a lift into town. Tragically, he doesn't sing, and the importing business is something he does after hours as a second job. His first job is in admin at a nearby International school.

Clever him. He's surrounded himself by cashed up white alcoholics.

He does that for however many hours, does his beer deliveries, and then goes to his third job... as a Police detective, on night shift.

“You're a what?” said I, obviously surprised.

He smiled. “I tend to arrive late and leave pretty early.”

“Kamal when do you sleep??”

“Oh, I get about four hours a night. I get by ok on that.”

He then went on to tell me that he's on track to retire at forty. Clever him indeed.

In other news, my li'l hog is running perfectly. For those who don't know (I'm working off the laughable theory that I might have some new readers) I acquired a scooter a few months ago, as KL traffic jams are savage, we don't have the cash for a car anyway, and taxis can get you killed.

I had a pretty bad run with The Blue Lightning initially, which I'll cover for you now, with prices converted to AUD for your convenience.

Fault: Bike stopped on highway bridge, while overtaking a bus with pillion passenger; clogged carburettor

Fix: Indian man pushed bike to repair shop, carburettor serviced - $12

Fault: Carburettor fell off over speed bump

Fix: Carburettor refitted, battery replaced - $20

Fault: Failed piston and rings due to massive overheating after 90 minute “I have no idea where I am” thrash in searing heat

Fix: Broken parts replaced with parts of the original (read:correct) size - $80

Fault: Bike won't restart after initial rebuilt motor test, stuck at 7-11

Fix: Catch taxi, recharge battery, actually run the engine in properly - $5

Fault: Rear tyre flat after collision with discarded lump of concrete in motorcycle lane on a rainy night

Fix: New tyre- replaced by workshop at 9:45pm (try doing that at Peter Stevens) - $22

Fault: Carburettor fell off five times on one trip

Fix: Reattach, glue carb in place with silicone, secure with fencing wire, zip ties, brace with broken hammer handle and cardboard box - $??

Fault: Drive belt broke on the way home from resigning at my last job

Fix: Walk to pub, fix in the morning - $15, plus two beers and a bacon sandwich.

I think we've crested the hill of brokenness for now. I ring the neck outta the poor little 110cc (0.11 litre for those of you with a sense of humour) single, winning traffic light battles, crossing median strips and pedestrian walkways, parking anywhere, and making air over speed bumps as I overtake BMWs. The look on their faces is priceless.

I even got 120 kays out of the tiny five litre tank the other day, and a lot of that was with Jem on the back. I'm happy to admit I'm impressed.

But soon we'll be buying a car. This year's tax return will treat us very, very well (working for six months on a high income tends to do that) and there's a few things on the wish list, and some solid convictions on what to avoid.

Firstly, I have a theory about not buying cars from companies who spend less on development that Tasmanians spend on beer. So that eliminates anything locally built from the list. Google Proton Jumbuck crash test, you'll get the picture.

I wouldn't buy a small Ford or GM in Australia, so I'm not about to do it here. You can get a small Toyota, but I'm a large Australian, so that has its issues as well. Subaru has only just begun selling cars here on mass, so they're out.

That narrows the list down to things imported from Europe.

Fortunately for me, European cars tend have the value holding properties of a carton of milk, so for the proposed budget ($8000 AUD) there's quite a few things on the table. But I'm all for slashing the list a bit further.

Mercedes: Well engineered, but hold their value a little well, so you have to buy one that's at least 18 years old. 18 years in Malaysia is like 200 years in Europe. Pass.

BMW: No wagons. I have an unhealthy obsession with wagons, so that doesn't help. Old BMWs are a bit scary electronically too. I have a re-occurring nightmare about a 7-series developing a misfire at idle. Pass.

Audi, Citroen, Renault... no, just no. Horrendous idea.

That leaves one candidate.

2.0 or 2.5 litre turbo engines, which is good, as rego fees here are calculated off engine capacity. Good on the highway, enough poke for the city, but low-boost reliable setups that should see me through for the next couple of years.

Potential for small modifications (intercooler, exhaust) but difficult to modify heavily, and anything that discourages that is a good thing for me and my marriage.

ABS, airbags, German engineering, Bosch parts, class leading (world leading, technically) safety, and autobahn-capable of the high speed cruising that Malaysian highways sometimes allow.

For the budget, I should be able to get one that's right on ten years old.

Bet of all, they come in wagon form.

Only thing is, I have to tell people something I'm not entirely comfortable with.

You see..

Well, it's just that...

I want a Volvo.

Is there a support group for this?

Bikes, jobs, unimaginative headings

There are times in life when you end up doing things that you once swore you'd never do.

Some things come to mind immediately, like owning a modified car, or buying another high powered rifle. On the plus side, my hot rod brings all the bros to the yard,(and they're like, why doesn't it start?) and the .308 looks nice sitting next to the .223, .303, 12 gauge and pair of .22's that never see daylight, or spotlight for that matter.

So, things.

Before I moved to Malaysia, I'd sworn that I wouldn't ride a scooter in KL. The roads were too busy, the drivers were too nuts, and in short, I thought widened the odds of me dying of old age to an unacceptable level.

I mean, depending on which body you consult, the Malaysia annual road toll stands at 3,600 or 6,000 for the official/unofficial figures respectively. By rights, it's enough to make you lock yourself in a room and order take out until you wind up on one of those 'It Happened To Me' late night television shows, being winched out of your roof.

On to the present, I ride one daily. Often with my wife, hanging on the back. That's quite a change of opinion, and now I'll explain how it came about.

Firstly, I learned, and possibly conquered Malaysian roads in a Mighty Myvi.

Because you're not some sort of car encyclopaedia, I'm happy to explain that a Myvi is a small, locally built soft-drink-can-with-wheels that is the mode of transport of choice for entry-level car buyer.

From here I learned a few things. For starters, everyone merges into your lane. All the time. So you need to expect that. Easy.

Secondly, the majority of the merging, cutting off, reversing down on-ramps, and stopping in the middle of highway happens fairly slowly. So you have a few seconds to contemplate “Is he... really going to do that?” (of which the answer is inevitably YES) and then respond accordingly.

Thirdly, the right hand lane is suicide.

Seriously kids, suicide. It's where the Porches and Lambo's play. But it's easy enough to avoid.

Two more factors.

I caught taxis to and from work for a few weeks before the scooter came up for sale. In short, some of the taxi rides were terrifying.

The problem with being a mechanic is that when you're in a half million-kay old proton that's hooking round a highway bend at speed is that you're painfully aware of the relevance of every bump, creak, groan and grind to your personal safety. My worst motorcycle scare has nothing on my worst taxi rides. Nothing.

Now, about the road toll. Malaysia has a similar amount of people as Australia, so yes, the road toll is as absolutely shocking as it sounds. But it doesn't particularly worry me.

To obtain a motorcycle and licence in Australia, you have to pass a few tests of skill, be financially stable, and wait. You wait a long time. And then you pass another test.

You have super strict road laws regarding speed, as well as general road manners, and observation of road safety laws.

Whereas in Malaysia, you need to be too poor to own a car.

As to why being poor makes otherwise sane people ride scooters like absolute nutcases, I'm out of ideas. There is a saying thrown around that translates to 'by the will of Allah', which gives a little insight. In other words, you may live, or die, it's all in the hands of God. That can't help. What I know is that whilst there are no guarantees on Malaysian roads, (or Australian roads for that matter) the way you ride has a higher influence on life or death than anything else.

Now that you've digested all of that, I give you my closing argument.

From memory, around half of Malaysia gets around on two wheels. They do so occasionally out of practically, but mainly because of one thing: annual income.

I live in their country, eat their food, and breathe the same air as they do. The difference with me, is that I grew up in Australia, and when I relocated to an essentially developing country, I did so with large amounts of financial replenishment.

The average bloke on a motorbike does it out of necessity.

Millions of Malaysians ride scooters.

And in the end, if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me.

A few words about employment

In the interest of using this blog for actual chronicling of relevant news regard myself, I'll give you a quick run-down of my employment of the last six months.

Initially, I was happily and busily unemployed. I set up house, arranged a few things, did the washing, and occasionally did modelling work for my cousin's casting agency.

That got boring, and the work got scarce, so I was looking for a job.

I got one, through a friend at the football club. It was for a PR agency. That lasted six weeks.

In the end, I pulled the pin, which was 50% because I found out I wasn't suited to PR, and 50% because the last week I worked for them was a 62 hour week. No including the weekend. Yeah, not really why I moved to Asia. I still like my wife, so I should spend some time seeing her when I can.

Today I completed what may be my first step into a new career direction.

I worked a day at Jem's school. The principal is keen to get me started with them as a sessional/emergency teacher, off the back of my Cert 4 TAE. Short of me hating the work, I may begin study towards a proper teaching degree next year. But it's early days.

Anywho. Exciting times.

The fuzz

"I'll have to give you a summons," he said. "The summons will cost 300 rinngit."

I'd been a bit apprehensive about dealing with the Police over here. Ideally, you never deal with them. They just complicate things. And everyone I talk to just tells me to bribe them. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

We were exiting a car park, turning right, and I illegally crossed a turning lane. Which, in a country where it's quite normal for scooters to drive the wrong way down exit ramps, is barely even noteworthy. Had I actually seen the policeman standing on the side of the road, I probably still would've crossed the lane.

I was then waved down by Mr Plod, who I think at the time was writing out parking fines. 

He didn't actually ask me for a bribe. He just kept telling me that the summons would cost three hundred rinngit. Which is odd, considering I've been on the Police website and there aren't any fines that cost anywhere near that much. He'd tell us this, and then crack half a smile, and leave a nice big space for me to offer to settle the bill now. 

I wasn't worried. I sat there calmly, and looked him in the eye. "That's too bad," I said.

On with the small talk. He asked us where we were from, and what we were doing here. His face quite amusingly dropped when he found out that I wasn't an engineer for a petroleum company(read: rich) and Jem was just a teacher. Not just a teacher, but clearly a woman, so she couldn't be making that much money. So after telling us a few more times that we would definitely be getting a summons, and it'd cost us 300rm, and then staring at us, with hope in his eyes... he let us off with a warning. 

It was a good month for cops. Actually, no it wasn't. But it was a very good month for me. 

We'd booked a Bali holiday with Jem's family. In a stroke of good timing, I had a mate from Australia over there doing pretty much the same thing I was, and we met up for coffee. And sandwiches. And beer. After all, it's Bali.

The cafe was out a ways from the centre of town and on my much longer than expected walk I'd learned that the taxis were kinda scarce. So to get home, I hopped on the back of Tim's scooter. I didn't have a helmet with me. 

Now I should clarify. 

I owned and rode a bike regularly back in Australia. I own and ride a scooter here in Malaysia. I value helmets. I like my head, and I think I have a good looking face, which under normal circumstances I take many precautions to protect. But it was only a short ride, mostly on backroads, and although the traffic in Bali is kinda random, the speeds are pretty low. So I made an exception.
As it happened, Tim had never been to the place we were staying, and I was still getting my head around the roads. Soon enough we were slightly lost, and eventually wound up at a fairly busy intersection manned by a few traffic cops. 

Now I'm 6"2 and I'd guess Tim to be at least six inches shorter that me, so my attempts to duck down behind him didn't really help. The copper waved us down.

Just before I hopped off the back, I leaned in towards Tim and told him to absolutely ride on and let me deal with the Po Po's by myself. He didn't listen. He did, however, park just far enough away that the policeman wouldn't walk over to him, and instead sat there and played an amusing 'Hey you!' 'Who, me?' hand gesturing game with him across the intersection. Eventually, the man in the hat gave up and went back to directing traffic. Well played, Tim. Well played.

Anyway.

The taller one beckoned me into the little Police box, conveniently located at the side of the road.

If there's anyone reading this who hasn't met me, I should explain that me referring to myself as 'a bit of a talker' is understating the point. In the words of a former girlfriend (who you don't know) I could talk underwater. I causally shot the breeze with my captor.

I explained the situation clearly and apologetically. I'd normally wear a helmet, for sure. I just couldn't get a cab. And then we got lost.

He wasn't really an active participant in the conversation.

He pulled a pre-laminated sheet of paper out from under a book, with the fines for various offences printed on it.

“In Indonesia,” he explained, “You must wear helmet.”

“I know,” I said. “I normally would wear one, it's just that I couldn't get a taxi. And we weren't going far, but we got a bit lost. Can you help direct us home?”

“In Indonesia,” he explained gently for the obviously slow minded tourist, “you must wear helmet. The fine for no helmet is 250,000R(about $25AU).”

“I see,” I said. “Oh well. If that's the fine, then that's how it is. I didn't mean to have come this way, we just got a bit lost.

“I'm Josh, anyway. What's your name?”

My new friend goes silent. 
Awkward silent. 
Which I thought was strange, but then, maybe that's just how he is.

“If I write you a fine, you must go to the Police Station,” he explained, “Or you can pay it now, and finished.” He made the palms down gesture for effect.

I was aware of what was going on here, but I wasn't really concerned. I figured that being an older guy, he probably had kids, and if the corrupt policeman's family, rather than the corrupt policemans somewhat corrupt government was going to profit from my sins, then I wasn't about to lose any sleep.

“Now because you are tourist, you have discount, so only cost 100,000 ($10) if you pay now.”

I agreed that 100,000 was better than 250,000, and pulled out the money and paid him.

“So we're a bit lost,” I repeated, “could you help us with directions? I can show you on a map where we're heaped, can you help us out on how to get there?”

He nodded happily enough, right up until I pulled a laptop out of my backpack. 
Then his eyes nearly fell out of his head.
“Is this where we are?”

Awkward silence.

“This intersection right here?”

“....yes...”

“So we head down that way, then?”

“.....Uh, yes, take second right.”

By this point he's looking very nervous, and the other policeman is shooting concerned glances over at my new mate and starting to walk over towards us.

“Oh, thanks heaps, mate, you've really helped us. What did you say your name was?”

His face changed again. No name was offered. I think I heard him sigh.

“Because you are tourist,” he said pulling the bill out of his book and handing it back to me, “I will give you a warning. Tomorrow, you wear helmet.”

I thanked him again, profusely, but he seemed to look at me as though I was insincere.

It was only later that I realised what I'd done, and what I must have appeared like to him.

Other than to always carry a laptop(because it makes you look very official) I'm not really sure what I learned from this.

I don't like the idea of a corrupt police force, but now that I've learned what they actually get paid, I don't like the idea of a poor police force either.

So I'm still on the fence what to do.

There are a few absolutes.

Be friendly, as this seems to catch the police off guard. I tend to think that in the majority of circumstances, accepting to pay a written fine will result in the police letting you off. Everyone hates paperwork, especially if you don't get paid overtime.

Always, always remember that you are a guest of whatever country you may be in. Remember that Australian woman who got locked up in Thailand for stealing a bar mat? She probably would have received a warning had she not made very loud derogatory statements about the Bangkok Chief of Police. That's poor form.

Don't be that guy.

On both occasions, the truth of the matter is that I was only pulled over because I'm white. No question.

But I don't think that pointing out this obvious discrimination would have helped my case.

I'll leave it to you to draw your own conclusions as to what is right and what is wrong.
But I'll part with this:
Act within your conscience, act politely, always, always ask for their name (I mean, that's just polite, really) and at worst? It'll still cost you less than a parking fine on Malop street.

*Last Saturday, the Malaysian Warriors, of which I am a playing member, travelled to Manilla, Phillippines to compete in a five team tournament. Due to the shorter than normal ground, the rules were set at ten men a side, with a maximum of five on the bench, and no goals were to be kicked from outside the 'fifty' (forty at the most) metre arc. The 38 degree heat was partially offset by the game time of ten minutes per half. That said, after ten ten minute sessions of footy in the heat, it's safe to say we were pretty spent...




Anyone who knows me well knows that I couldn't remember what I had for breakfast, let alone names and football stats, but here's the Tournament report all the same.


In the searing Manilla heat, the recently Mighty Malaysian Warriors lined up on the somewhat short turf to take on the world (yes, the world) in the PAFL Manilla Tournament. Ten men a side were to man the pitch, and the scene was set for a cracker of a day.


The first round saw the Warriors line up to take on the strong home side of the Philippine Sea Eagles. Having already played their first match, the Eagles were expected to have their team structure sorted, and be in good form. Fortunately that wasn't the case, as Woosha kicked the opening goal, highlighting quite clearly that this was bound to be a special day. It was around this early stage that various explanations were entered into with the umpiring staff. Most of the players were of the opinion that although too much of anything is a bad thing, it wouldn't hurt to put whistle to mouth from time to time. The umpires disagreed, much to the authors despondence, but soon it didn't matter much as goals by Eggsy, Flanna(probably), and someone else (not me) had the Warriors up by three points when the final siren blew.
Warriors 4 3 27
Eagles 4 0 24


Full of confidence from the early win, the boys lined up to take on the Jakarta Bintangs for round two. The boys quickly hit the front, with strong defensive pressure by Jimmy 'Bitch Piss' Wardrop and Nate Buma keeping the Bintangs to just two majors for the entirety of the match. Although according to the bloke I lined up on, the poor performance of the Indo boys was more directly related to the fact that whilst they played well in the first game, they were drunk, and by the time we played them they were all hung over, and no-one could be bothered running any more.
Warriors 5 5 35
Bintangs 2 0 12


History against them, the Warriors took on the Hong Kong Faggo.. er, Dragons for round three. Marcus Coombes immediately found some form, dominating the centre clearances and also the HK ruckman's face. And although Coombsey's accuracy was centimetre perfect, our forwards struggled to get the ball between the big sticks. With Ricksy heavily tagged, and myself being unable to kick straight for longer than five metres, the Warriors came into the half time break two goals down.
A heroic fightback in the second half failed to produce a win, with the difference coming down to one accurate kick. Special mention should be made to to Burnsey, who's perhaps misguided effort to break to largest HK's player shoulder with his ageing and tech-screwed one was nothing if not selfless. With any luck, his teeth have by now stopped rattling.
Warriors 3 3 21
Dragons 4 1 25


The fourth round held great significance for both teams, as it was dedicated to former club identity Brian Hammond, who recently passed away unexpectedly. This added weight to the already fierce rivalry between the two clubs, and with Rixxy starting things off in the ruck, the physically punishing match got underway.
The Warriors started hard, with Snakes and Eggsy's gut running showing complete disregard for the oppressive weather conditions. But it was never going to be easy, and by the time the half time bell rang, the Warriors were down by a kick.
It was time to contemplate. We all knew that only a win would do, and this wasn't an opportunity that would present itself again soon. It would take clear heads, gut running, and a fair slice of brute to do the job. 
The whistle blew, and everything began to fall into place. 
Marcus and Rixxy shared the rucking duties, with the midfielders Snakes, Eggsy, Stewart and someone else working hard to shut down the powerful Singapore midfield. Jimmy Wardrop and Buma continued their savage defence of the backline, soundly beating their direct opponents and then sneaking up forward to take crucial possessions across the midfield, further starving the Wombat forwards. Jimmy Drummond put his head to good use, repeatedly throwing it over the ball without regard to life, limb, and the ability to smile. Coombsy put in a huge effort, running down into the forward line to finally take his first mark for the game. Despite heavy protest from the bench, the umpire ruled that five meters really was less than fifteen, and the game continued unabated. (I'm only joking Coombsey, don't hit me) Shane Lawson stepped up to the task, taking the unorthodox approach of kicking a hideous inside out drop punt that flew straight for a major score. Burnsey followed the more conventional style of drop punt for another goal, and with the backline covered, the Wombat centre structure in tatters, and a few minor scores from our forwards, the game was won by just three points.
Warriors 3 6 24
Bankers 3 2 20


As luck would have it, the Warriors again lined up against Singapore for the Tournament Final. 
With team spirit at an all time high, the boys set out to take the reigning asian champs to pieces. All the efforts of the day finally fell into place- the deliveries into the forward line were spot on, with Flanna, Shaneo, Marcus and Rixxy putting scores on the board. Half time saw the Warriors up by nine points. 
At the return of play, the Warriors showed their true potential as a football team, with all working hard as a well functioning unit. It was a pleasure to see the confidence the boys showed in themselves and their teammates, made even more enjoyable by the Singapore boys, who proceeded to sook and whinge at every decision and in general act like a bunch of whiney girls.
The Warrior assault was unrelenting, with both big ruckmen in Rixxy and Coombesy putting away goals, and unprecedented levels of physical pressure being applied across the board, everyone played out their role until the final siren blew. 
All in all, a fantastic effort, with previously unseen levels of fitness, physical toughness, and a dogged win-at-all-costs attitude being shown to a man. 
Warriors 7 4 46
Wombats 4 0 24


Special mentions:
Flanna for kicking six goals, although you wouldn't know it from reading the match report
Flanna for kicking five points
Rixxy and Marcus for giving us first use of the ball all day, and scoring some goals to boot
Snakes for his Steve Monnaghetti-esk running prowess
Eggsy for a massive effort in the centre, playing his fiftieth match during a grand final (which has to be a fine) and not saying anything dumb in the after match speech
Marcus for laying down the law in spectacular blood drawing fashion against the HK ruckman. The Manilla turf still trembles, with the judges final ruling putting the score at HK 1, MC 12 solidly placed fists for the win. And as they say, a win is win.
Tim Paps for playing his first day with the Warriors on the day we won the first cup in seven years- what a jerk




Well done boys! It was my first grand final in ten years, and a massive win for the club. I only wish I could remember more details to better do the day justice. That said, given Sundays performances, I'll be surprised if anyone has the memory to correct me...




Joshua Fines Chief Woosha Welsh

How to be a man.

I know things. Man things.
I'm not the type to just randomly throw unsubstantiated claims out there, but I know some things about being a man.
I have several undeniable qualifying factors.
1: I have used a chainsaw on several occasions.
2: I possess (and use) at least three non-kitchen knives.
3: I have killed and prepared the food that my family (okay, wife and dog) has been nourished with.
4: I have fixed various components by striking them. With fist and hammer, I'm not fussy.
5: I've never drank wine at a bar. Not once.

It's certainly not the complete list of my qualifications, but I feel I've given enough for all of you to come to the same conclusion: I am a man. With this in mind, I would like for a moment to shed some advice on those of the male gender who wish to one day achieve the status of manhood:

For her sake, and for your own, learn to cook.


You don't need to be Jamie Oliver. Although his man-status (BOSS 11) is well beyond mine, and is a fantastic role model in the pursuit of manhood.
But cooking skills are essential.
Let's run through the reasons.
A: Girls love it.
Seriously. A man who can cook is worth his weight in gold. Or perhaps apple cider. He's valued. Why?
You've got the feminist movement and a generation of chauvinists to thank for this. A man who can cook is perceived, I'll have you know, as sensitive, mature, and above all, not a sooky mumma's boy, or a sexist pig who think women belong in the kitchen. You may be either one of those last two. But for now, we can keep that under wraps.
Scenario one: Teenage boy, hanging out at a movie marathon... What's that, you say? No coin for pizza? Raid the host family's cupboard and BAM. Mac and cheese. Chicks love mac and cheese.
You're a handy guy. Thoughtful. And clever. This is the reputation you want to have before you're eighteen. Because the Corolla you're going to get isn't doing you any favours. Ever.
B: Guys will promote you to genius status. 
The best pizza and nachos can be made in the same kitchen that your mother made bangers and mash that you hated. You need an oven, some sort of bean based salsa, and small pieces of bacon. Layer of nachos, layer of cheese, layer of salsa, sprinkle the bacon. Repeat until you need a bigger pan. And don't use a microwave, or the chips will go soggy.
Now. Just in case there are any numptys reading this: I know there's a Domino's down the road, and if you have no sense of taste whatsoever this may be an attractive alternative. But it isn't.
Scenario two: You're nineteen, mates are inbound for football watching and beer consumption. Buy the cheap chips, good salsa, and steal the rest from the fridge. Call mate no. 1 and 2 and state the following:
"I've made awesome nachos, you bring the beer."
Your cost: $5. Your mate's cost $15. Paying off your car before him: Priceless.
C: Marriage.
Remember: It's for the lady first, the ladies second, and third, for you.
The wife gets home late one night, and you've prepared a feast. She's stoked, she'll probably do the dishes out of gratitude, and she can't tell you that you 'never cook' for at least a week. I could tell you about the sliding scale of how much mess you made compared to how thankful she is, but there are some things you should learn for yourself.
The ladies.
By now, you should have figured out that girls talk. The exact nature of their talk in regards to you will can be divided into either positive or negative.
Positive talk is a wonderful thing. If your wife's friends are talking positively about you, your wife will be thinking positive thoughts about you.
Married brethren, think about that for a minute.


Mmm.
This is a serious boon for you. Potentially life altering. Positively sex life altering. (I figure the young ones have stopped reading by now...)
There's an easy way to do this. My wife is a school teacher. When her school has a morning tea for the teachers, I produce a baked cheesecake.
And the whole staff goes freaking nuts over it.
They talk about it for months. Seriously.
They absolutely do not talk about how you're a slob, you leave clothes on the floor, spend too much money on bikes/motors/alcohol, fart in bed and hide empty glasses beside the couch.
It's all in your favour.
There's a fantastic rumour going around that baked cheesecakes are hard to make.
They're not. If you can follow instructions, you can make a baked cheesecake. Or a pavlova. Or a Black Forest Chocolate cake. You may have to buy a special pan, or extra wide tinfoil. But it's simple enough. Baking is an exact science: follow the instructions, and the awesome will follow.
The guys probably won't mention your baking. It's awkward. But the girls will talk. There will be envious citations. And then, in that beautiful moment, your wife will actually brag about you. Just to join in.
Finally, learn to cook for you.
The male mind when hungry is almost completely occupied by thoughts of food.
Hunger in the average female's mind, however, is trapped somewhere between Tiffany's breakup, her hair, that sale on this weekend, the work that's due tomorrow, the women with the purple scarf who was very rude and how she can't stand wherever you left your work boots AGAIN.
So. If you want to eat, you'd best learn to cook, or you may starve to death.

So learn to cook for you: For if a man has prepared the meal, he will never, ever have to sit down to a legume salad for dinner.


PS. Someone from Cambodia read my blog this week... May I ask who?

You gotta have faith.
Without faith, you're immobilised. Stuck.
Everyone has faith. Even the best atheists have faith.
The trouble is, only a few people seem to realise this.
Drive down a highway. Without faith in the other drivers, you'd have to pull over every time a car goes past. But you have faith in their abilities, and the engineers that designed your automobiles, and you drive on past without giving it a second thought.
Hop into an elevator. Climb into an aeroplane. Catch a train.
There is a gap growing between 'people of faith' and the modern secularised world.
The argument is that people of faith trust in something that they cannot see.
My argument is that everyone does that. All the time.
It's just that most people don't think about it.

So... who do you put your faith in?

I found my peace on a facebook page...

Our earth is an astounding place. At every new turn I'm greeted by incredible sights and incredible people, all unique, and yet still all with the same hopes and needs that the rest of us have.

But the more I learn, the more I know. And the more I wished there were some things I'd never learned.

I had a flying visit to Cambodia. In and out in a weekend. Living in KL has it's advantages.

I'm always amazed that I can get off a ninety minute flight and be a completely different world. (does that make me old? It sounds like old man talk...) KL is a sprawling metropolis, and Phnom Penh is a dusty poverty stricken city. With spider webs for power cables and a road system that resembles a drunken bar fight.

I'd done the dumb tourist thing... 

I hadn't looked into any of the past or present goings-on of the country, learned any of the language, or even written down the name of the hotel I was staying in. Traveling with a group had me relaxed.

There were a few things that stood out to me about the city. Poverty was on display for sure, but I saw stalls, marketplaces, and people buying and selling. The city would seem to be on the upward. It's a strange view, seeing a large television at the front of a shanty bar, next to a squatter camp, with a mansion towering in the background. Full circle, in one photo snap.

The traffic was so unorganised it was almost comical. Fortunately for everyone, the 'tuk tuks' aren't known for high speed prowess, so the average speeds are pretty low. God help them when they get proper highways.

I don't remember seeing any ambulances. I could probably put that down to luck.

On reflection, there was something else that stood out to me. I've been to a few asian countries now. I have a clear memory in each country of seeing old people.

Malaysia has tonnes of them. Old dudes, manning the market stalls, driving taxis. The head guard at a gated community. I remember old people in the Philipines. Not as many, but definitely there.

In the weekend I spent in Cambodia, in a city of 1.5 million, I only remember seeing one old person. It's only something I realised afterwards.

Looking at the CIA website, we find the average life expectancy of a Cambodian born today is 60 years for men, 65 for women. And we find the average age is just 23.

So. If you don't know the story, it's now time to read up on the rule of the Khmer Rouge. Particularly the years between 1975 and 1979.

What I'm referring to was genocide, on a scale Hitler would be proud of. About one third of the country died as a result of the ruling government's attempt to change society. They believed good communists came from simple peasants. So in summary, if you were rich, educated, or in any way outstanding you were killed. Or if you disobeyed any order. Foraging for food to supplement the meagre rations for example, was proof enough that you'd disregarded the ruler's wisdom in food allotment, and were therefore a traitor to your country and should be killed. They also focused on eliminating certain people groups, and we particularly set against the the younger generation, as the were seen as too educated and untrustworthy.

About two million of the people of Cambodia died. Either murdered, starved, or struck down by disease, as any western medicines were banned. And it all happened within the last thirty five years.

Count back the numbers. If you were between 15 and 35 then, you'd be between 50 and 70 now.

Scary, deeply depressing stuff.

Poverty still has the majority of the nation in it's grip.

A member of the group was a union rep, for want of a better term. He'd been in rural Cambodia for the last few weeks, negotiating a wage increase for construction workers. The backers were keen for a deal, and the wages were raised. Raised to $4.50US a week. That's up 50%. No holiday pay, sick pay, six days a week, $234 a year.

Honest work doesn't pay. Civil servants are on about $30 a month. Corruption is rife. And the child sex trade has reared it's ugly head again.

Girls being sold by their parents is commonplace. They are then kept as slaves until the 'debt' has been paid off. This debt generally increases as living expenses are added to the bill. And as the girl ages, her 'street value' decreases, and by the age of 20 she is left uneducated, abused, and diseased.

It happens to the boys, too.

It has been said that the horrors of the Khmer Rouge live on within the people, creating a moral vacuum, and a perpetuating cycle of abuse. This abuse is allowed to continue by tourists, locals, and corrupt police and government officials. Although I find it hard to use the word 'corrupt' when you're talking about people who earn in a month what I earned every week delivering newspapers when I was twelve.

Much of the prostitution has been pushed underground. It's not as blatant as it once was.

And it's not the image I left with.

Driving on a bus with the boys, we passed the scene of an accident. A young man, probably about my age, lay dead in the middle of the road.

Perhaps he fell from the back of a scooter. Perhaps he was trying to cross the road. There was no sign on the car that had hit him, only a few people, standing vigil in the centre of the road, awaiting the undertaker.

Poverty had claimed another victim. Few streetlights, no crossings. Overcrowded motorcycles and no road safety education. In a land where a human life is still very cheap.

I felt sick. But worse than that, I felt helpless. I was too late. There was nothing I could do.

How do you talk about these things? In what social settings is it appropriate to discuss infant mortality rate, mass murders, or the price the a twelve year old virgin goes for in Svay Park?

I don't want to internalise things. I don't want someone to tell me it's ok. Because it isn't.

I found rest in a post on a teenage girl's facebook page.

“At any given time we are given the power to say, 'this is not how the story will end'.”

My peace comes with a resolve: I will not forget what I have learned. I will not forget them.

And I will not allow poverty to decide the direction of a nation.

We have the technology. We just have to decide how to use it.