​“I’m so busy.”
 
That’s usually my response when people ask me, “How are you?”
 
It may come with some other qualifying phrase like, “I’ve been good” or “I can’t complain,” or something like that, but the gist of my answer is that I am so busy. Sometimes, I’ll even huff and puff and rub my tired for added effect.
 
I say it so much that I don’t even realize it – an automatic response.
 
Yes, I have been busy. I am busy today. And I probably will have many arduous tasks to complete at a rapid pace for the foreseeable future – at least as long as I’m on this planet.
 
But what does that mean?
 
Nothing, really.
 
In fact, I’m probably about as “busy” as the next person. Or less, I sometimes contemplate as I take my third hammock siesta of the day. There’s no denying that the pace of our society has quickened thanks to those damn computers and exploitative CEOs, but I can’t imagine we have more items on our To Do lists then other homo sapiens in yesteryear. Am I busier than, say, Henry Ford? Busier than a Chinese fisherman in the 1600s? What about your typical caveman scrambling around trying to invent fire while not getting eaten by a dinosaur? Probably not.
 
I’ve noticed that I’m not the only one. Other people say, “I’m busy,” too, like the quantity of our effort is a measure of our worth. And while I can’t speak for everyone, I almost think I say it as a badge of honor, trying to prove to my conversation mate that I’m a productive member of society. If I say I’m busy and really LOOK busy (that’s the key) then they won’t scrutinize my credentials as a productive and purposed adult citizen.
 
Or maybe it’s a defense mechanism, a way to shield myself from engaging in authentic conversation that will bring vulnerability. If I tell them the truth, that my tooth hurts or I’m having a so-so day, will they then suspect that I actually have no clue what I’m doing in life and most days just stumbling forward?
 
So this year, I think I’ll start banning, “I’m busy,” from my vocabulary. That might force me to actually answer their question. Of course, no one wants to hear my life story when they squeak out an, “HowAreYa?” in passing, but I’ve got to think that ANY answer is better - and more truthful – than the a plague of busy-ness. I even started practicing some other suitable answers:
 
“I’m great.”
“I’m thankful.”
“I feel love and peace in my heart.”
“I’m terrible.”
“I slept like shit last night.”
“I’m chilling.”
 “Surprisingly productive.”
“It’s leg day, so, you know.”
“Obviously, I’m better than you.”
“I need a drink.”
“I’m constipated…oh…wait…no I’m not.”
“What are you going to do with this information?”
 “My left nut is falling off.”
“I’m unusually randy.”
 “I anticipate being arrested at any moment now.”
 “Who’s running this shit show, anyway?”
 
These are the new answers on my short list. I admit they need a little revision, (‘love and peace?’ Really?) but it’s not a bad start.
 
So this coming year, ask me some time – I dare you - “How are you?”
 
I don’t know what will come out of my mouth, but I betcha I don’t say, “I’m busy.”

-Norm   :-)
 
 

​This is Chan Rathana, my boxing and marital arts teacher here in Cambodia. He just did something that takes a whole lot of guts – stepping into the octagon to fight another man in a MMA bout - and ended up with the glory. Only 36 hours before this photo was taken, Rathana did battle with fellow Cambodian countrymen Samang “Ironfist” Dun, beating him when he landed a couple of sizzling punches at the very end of the first round.
 
That was on Saturday night, in front of thousands at a very well organized and run One FC sanctioned MMA match at Naga World in Phnom Penh, the capital city of Cambodia. On Monday when I took this photo, Rathana was already back to work, training foreign and Khmer beginners at his art, a little more subdued than normal and with a nice bruise on his check but no worse for wear. With a work ethic like that, it’s no wonder why we won.

​Rathana is the owner and teacher at Selapak, a cultural center in the heart of Phnom Penh. Next door to Selapak is a rowdy Irish bar that often spills over, downstairs a space to teach traditional Khmer dance, and upstairs, the gym. It’s ridiculously small by western standards, really the long, narrow upstairs room of an apartment with a high ceiling; two heavy bags swinging, a shoebox ring where you are always in kicking distance of your opponent, and a big mirror along one side of the matts, which have sporadic hidden trapdoors where it is only bar concrete and an occasional metal anchor where you can catch your foot if you’re not careful. There is no AC in the stifling heat, a couple of ceiling fans whirling and the back door of the apartment – I mean, gym – opening up to a tiny balcony.
 
Selapak sees a steady stream of people training in Khun Khmer, or traditional Cambodian kick boxing, every evening at 6 and then 7 pm; Britts, Italians, a ton of Frenchmen (who add their own distinct cultural scent to the mix,) and a few young Cambodians looking to impress Rathana.

​I started training here (and I use the word ‘training’ loosely) a couple of years ago when I lived in a rat hole apartment across the street. Since then, I’ve moved to nicer quarters, and even trained privately with a different instructor for all of last year, but even then, I had no idea he was a professional fighter in the international ranks.
 
His fight this past Saturday was a chance to avenge his only professional loss, a controversial decision given to Ironfist a year ago after Rathana stomped on his face. (Really, I didn’t know that kind of thing was discouraged?) My buddy Wicced who works for the Phnom Penh Post got us tickets, and when I showed up I had no idea Rathana was the main event. 

​To be honest, I had my doubts when the fight started as it looked like there was a lot more downstairs traditional dancing than upstairs fighting, but soon the fighters engaged with flurries of punches, lightning kicks, and grappling. Near the end of the first, Rathana found himself standing over Iron Fist, who threw a cobra-like straight kick at Rathana’s face from his prone position. The kick just barely and Rathana coiled, unloading a haymaker that traveled from his shoulder all the way down to Iron Fist’s head on the mat. He threw a couple other jarring shots before the ref jumped in to stop it.

​Rathana now has an impressive 4-1 record in the professional One FC ranks with wins abroad in Thailand and Malaysia, and listed on Sherdog. Bigger opportunities are sure to come. He may not be sitting on top of the world just yet, but he’s sure the pride of his family, his country, Selapak, and his little neighborhood gym where it all started.

​So when I brought in my Fuji instant camera and asked my friend Rathana to pose with his championship One FC trophies, these weird black brick looking things) he gladly obliged. But when I gave him the photo as a memento of his victory and asked him to hold it up, my voice still hoarse from cheering, he stood even taller.

-Norm  :-)

This is part of a series where I take approach a common but remarkable person in Cambodia and ask if I can take their photo. I do so but with a Fujifilm instant camera, so the photograph pops out and develops right on the spot. I then had them the photo, sometimes the only one they've ever owned. I then capture the moment by taking a digital photo of them holding their new gift.
 
You can search for more of these blogs by clicking on the 'Give A Photo' category to the right, or read more here: Can I Give You This Photo, Please? 

These days, there's a whole lot of criticism thrown around at wealthy people, the 1%, Wall Street execs, CEOs, and the like. We criticize them, call them greedy, deride their character, and even call them evil. I am of guilty of this generalization at least as much as the average person, or probably more. That's why I thought it was so important to highlight some good news from not just one of the richest men in the world - Mark Zuckerberg, and his wife, Priscilla Chan, but from a sizable and ever-growing exclusive group of the wealthiest people in the world, who have committed to give away vast fortunes to charity as part of The Giving Pledge. I originally wrote this article for Blue Water Credit. 
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​“She never cries,” the monk said, soothing the little girl by brushing her hair and wiping the hot tears from her face.
 
I visited the Pagoda with Siman, a wonderful tuk tuk driver and here in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Siman does a whole lot to help his own people, all day long going to visit sick and poor kids and families he hears about, connecting them with concerned foreigners and non-profits like Kids at Risk Cambodia to try and get them some assistance like a bag of rice, some medicine, or a few Reil notes.
 
I’ve visited hospitals, slums, and villages far out in the provinces with Siman before, but this day, we visited a Pagoda – a temple where Buddhist monks live. But more than just a religious site, a Pagoda is a whole compound, sometimes as big as a city block, walled in and with its own schools and mini stores, its own little mini community for the devout and the poor.

Siman introduced me to a young monk, who flashed a magazine cover smile and spoke surprisingly good English, Chhun Bann.

​He welcomed us back as we were there the day before, trying to locate two homeless girls that often took refuge from the sun and tried to beg a little food outside the Pagoda. We couldn’t find them the previous day, but today, Chhun assured us they were there.
 
We followed him through the lanes and alleys of the Pagoda, some of them bringing us past ornate and colorful places of worship with shutters on every window and grand spired roofs, others places where young men lounged in the shade by their motos and stray dogs ran up to play.
 
“They usually stay over here – by this building,” Chhun explained. “They have no mother.” When we turned a corner, there was a teenager urinating against a building. He awkwardly tried to turn, hop, and zip at the same time when he saw the monk, but nature wouldn’t allow. Chhun chastised him in their language, but his words had no sharp edges.

​We walked on and found the spot where the girls were supposed to be. That couldn’t be right – it was only an empty black hammock stretched between a tree, in the shade of a building with some tarps and trash strewn about. At first I thought no one was there but then I saw a man’s leg emerging from the hammock, and then a Khmer man stand up, somewhat embarrassed and surprised to see a barang – foreigner, his one-year old daughter held tightly against his chest.
 
The man greeted Chhun and Siman warmly, and then proudly showed off his beautiful baby girl with wide, black eyes. But there were three to this hammock, because his five-year old daughter was still wrapped up in the hammock, completely enveloped like she was wrapped in a burrito, shirtless and with wild black hair. The monk bent down to pick her up, and she started bawling.
 
“She never cries like this,” he said. “She must not feel well. She usually runs right to me and sits with me, but she never cries.”

​As we all got acquainted and sat in the shade tending to the girls, Chhun explained their situation. The man and his two young daughters took shelter in the grounds of the Pagoda during the days, sleeping on the hammock. But at night, they had to sleep in the public park nearby, not a good place for little ones. There was noise and fights and drugs and bad things going on all night, so the girls rarely got enough sleep. The father pushed them all day and night in a stroller that sat nearby, laden with packages, the only possessions he owned in the world.
 
“The mother of the girls left for Thailand and never came back,” Chhun said. “She went for a job but maybe she met another man. That is what his friend told him.” Abandoned with two baby daughters to care for and no money, the man was reduced to homelessness – but refused to abandon his daughters. He had to watch them and take care of them day and night, trying to scrounge up food and keeping them cool and safe, so he could not go out and try to find even humble work all day.
 
The father explained to Chhun, who translated to me, that his oldest daughter was sick, so they’d spent the whole previous day at the public hospital, waiting for her to be seen. I couldn’t tell if it was her ears or what was ailing the girls, With no money, it was a tough proposition, but finally they gave him a few pills for her, which he proudly displayed in a little plastic square.

​The oldest girl kept crying and crying, and my presence and the fact that she was woken up so abruptly only made it worse. Finally, I took out my Fujifilm instant camera. The whole family sat on the bench and posed, but the girl still would not stop crying, even when the monk explained to her that it was a magic camera so she should watch carefully. They did their best to make her look presentable and then I took the photo. When she saw the blank white photograph emerge from the top of the camera, it did spark her interest enough to make her hiccup and pause before she started crying again.
 
I gave them the photograph, showing them to hold it by the bottom frame as the image of the battered but not broken family slowly seeped into existence. The monk and then the father and then his baby daughter started shaking the photograph – like you used to do with a Polaroid camera, as the song goes. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that it doesn’t help develop the film with this one because it was too cute of a scene.
 
“This one wants to learn English,” Chhun told me, “but of course for the poor people that is just a dream to go to school.”

​The father gently wiped his daughter’s face with a rag, still holding his youngest daughter, who looked unblinking and without crying. She held the photograph.
 
“But he is worried. They are young now, but with this oldest, maybe in about three years, he will have some big problems. Maybe there are drugs or gangsters who try to take her, you understand?” he said.
 
I nodded my head and told him that I did. The girl sat on the monk’s lap and stopped crying now, though her wild hair still refused to be tamed. She cooed and chewed on her finger as he took out a comb and brushed her hair, then wrapped it back elegantly.
 
“Look – she stopped crying,” he said.
 
“Let’s take another photo for them, them,” I said.
 
So they lined up on the bench again and I took another shot, counting one-two-three in Khmer but messing up my numbers, as usual. The girl didn’t smile, but at least this time she didn’t cry, and wanted to hold and shake the photo once it came out.

​I gave the father some money, at least enough to buy food for a week for the girls or more medicine if his daughter needed it. He thanked me and bowed in Khmer. But I remembered that it was somewhat bad etiquette to gift someone cash by itself when Siman presented him with an envelope – a donation from Kids at Risk Cambodia.
 
The father went and got his daughter a Coca Cola, which she eagerly drank in between playing with the monk’s cellphone.
 
“Which picture do you like better?” Chhun asked her in Khmer, displaying both in front of her. She pointed to one coyly.
 
“No, but look, you are not crying in this one,” he said. After careful consideration, she pointed to the newest photo.
 
“I really hope she can go to school,” Chhun said, looking up at me, the daughter who’s whole family slept in a hammock at the Pagoda chewing on the edge of the only photograph they’d ever owned. “Without that…well, I just really hope she can.”

- Norm   :-)