A fellow traveler relayed this story to me: While observing a construction project in India, the westerner asked one of the laborers why he did not use the wheelbarrow that had been provided. The laborer responded, “My father carried bricks on his head, his father carried bricks on his head and his father carried bricks on his head. So, I carry bricks on my head.”

During my travels, I have come to recognize that I also have been carrying a load of bricks on my head (the 20 KG in my pack isn’t enough of a burden?). It took me a while to get past the question of how these habits, fears, expectations and insecurities got there (inherited? kindly accepted to lighten someone else’s load? purchased outright as advised by media images and sound bites?). I have since focused my intention on identifying these bricks, disposing of the unnecessary ones and considering alternative ways to carry the remainder in a more effective manner.

Many bricks were brought out for examination with the help of a monk named Moni. Carrie and I met Moni while visiting the Cambodian royal palace in Phnom Penh. After a hectic and disturbing day of visiting the killing fields and Khmer Rouge torture museum, it was a pleasure to be escorted around the regal grounds by a friendly monk who wanted to practice his English. At the end of our tour, Moni invited us to return with him to his monastery outside the city. This immediately brought up a conflict of desires and emotions. Going with him would be one of those rare opportunities to see local life behind the façades erected for tourist consumption. Wasn’t this the reason we travel? On the other hand, we were tired, it would be dark soon and the prospect of watching the sunset from the hammocks on the deck of our lakeside guesthouse was an attractive one. Eventually, we compromised and agreed to visit him the following day (but still missed the sunset). That night, as we watched The Killing Fields video (with occasional geckos stopping on the screen to glimpse scenes they had doubtlessly seen before), I felt as though I had agreed to visit Moni because I “should”, not because I wanted to. It was then that I confirmed a suspicion that had been growing for a while: My hunger for unique travel experiences was subsiding (one brick gone). Sure I will continue to enjoy experiences as they come, but I no longer feel the need to seek them out.

As it turned out, our visit to Moni’s temple was a peaceful respite from the buzz (mainly motorbikes) of Phnom Penh. It was great to hear Moni interpret the stories of the Buddha’s life depicted on the temple's muraled walls and watch the farmers fishing in the adjacent flooded fields, but the day was not without some challenging moments. As we were preparing to leave, Moni said he felt very close to me and asked if he could be my “godson”. Surprised, confused and not having a pre-programmed response to such a request, I stalled by asking for clarification. When he produced his English dictionary, I found a graceful escape in the definition and pointed out that a godson was a Christian tradition while he was a Buddhist monk. Moni sadly accepted the logic of my argument and we parted awkwardly. He felt rejected, I felt relieved but guilty. A good portion of my 6-hour boat (hydrofoil) ride to Siem Reap was spent lamenting that I was unable to convey the truth of why I could not accept his request (one brick each for avoiding responsibility and conflict).

Siem Reap is the nearest town to the ancient temples of Angkor. These ruins are without question, the main tourist attraction in Cambodia. This brings rise to the “I’m a traveler, not a tourist” brick. However, like the Taj Mahal in India, these ruins are too significant to be avoided for the sake of traveler pride. Unfortunately, tourism means $$$. Our $10/day budget (each) was hopelessly abandoned as we paid $40 each for a three day pass, $6-10/day for a motorbike driver/guide (picture the three of us on one underpowered scooter) in addition to food and lodging. These exorbitant expenditures made us feel like we should get our money’s worth.

After watching the setting sun paint an amazing succession of hews onto the main temple at the end of our second day, I was in such a state of fatigued awe that I was only a little fazed to see our monk friend Moni waiting for us at the moat gate. The shock started to grow as we pieced together the facts and concluded that we had been effectively stalked by a monk. Knowing that we were to be visiting the ruins, he had borrowed money from another monk, taken an 8+ hour bus ride over brutal roads to Siem Reap and then hitched a ride to the temple where he miraculously found us. All pretense of coincidence was shattered when he immediately apologized for his error at our previous meeting and corrected his request. He did not wish to be my godson, but rather my adopted child.

“I wasn’t paranoid until they started following me” is one line (comedian unknown) that comes to mind, but even that isn’t completely true. I know from experience that any time we (as western travelers) attempt to build a relationship with a person from a significantly poorer country there is a strong chance that they will want far more from the relationship than we are prepared to give (the traveler’s guilt brick). I told him that I was honored by his request but was not in a position to accept the responsibility that was implied. Offering an alternative, I explained that I was very happy to be his friend. Then he caught me off guard again by saying I was “too old” to be his friend (it would be disrespectful on his part). Here was a man in his early 20’s saying I was too old to be his friend, but more than able to be his “parent”. I don’t consider myself to be overly concerned about age, but the weight of this unsuspected brick was immediately evident. At some point the negotiation was postponed by darkness and we agreed to re-convene in the morning.

It was a day none of us will forget. An experience not sought, but simply enjoyed. This time our farewell was just sad. He reluctantly accepted money for his bus fare home, I reluctantly accepted the obligation brick that accompanied the promise to write.

In subsequent reflection, I see how the labeling we successfully bypassed that day has marked my life (uh oh, sharp divergence from travel stories to introspection). As long as I can remember, I have struggled to fit labels. It was when I tried to appear “friendly”, “popular” or “fun” that I forgot how to have fun or how to be a true friend. In work, I aspired for titles: “investment banker”, “vice president”, “successful”. The problem was as I attained them, I wasn’t enjoying (nor excelling in) the actions associated with the titles. Succeeding in hollow goals proved unsatisfying. Even in traveling, I have caught myself focusing on “being” something that just required “doing”. I saw myself struggling to be a good meditator (rigid posture, proper attire, lots of retreats…) when all that really requires is sitting peacefully and breathing. Soul searching is full of such traps. I know I have transgressed in prior Chronicles and tried to appear “spiritual” or “wise”. Now I am just shooting for honest (one brick that feels better as it gets heavier).

One last thought on labels: Some of you have suggested that I become a writer. That label both intimidates and scares me. First, it implies an artistic quality that I respect but do not feel applies to me. Further, my Hemingway influenced view of a writer (a lonely, depressed person who drinks too much) better describes the person I was than the person I want to be. For now, I am content to arrange select words into unique patterns that attempt to capture my thoughts and feelings (call me what you will).

Can we get back to Cambodia now?

We were somewhere in the middle of the country, leaving the ruins but not knowing how. Battambang provided a convenient next stop. Our Lonely Planet guidebook for Southeast Asia recommended it as a quiet French colonial town that gets few western visitors. Perhaps this is because the same company's book on Cambodia (published a couple years earlier) said essentially: “Don’t go to Battambang, the roads there are impassible and if you do get there you will probably be shot.”

Things change quickly in Cambodia, but not the roads. We went by boat. The trip to Battambang was nothing short or amazing. We sat atop an express boat that I was afraid to be inside. If it capsized, I saw little hope of getting out the one small door in the front. This logic was not missed by others who also preferred the sun and air. This led to us being top-heavy and therefor more likely to capsize (an interesting dilemma). On the map, the journey was clearly across a huge lake, then up a small river to town. From our swaying perch, it was all just one monsoon swollen lake with occasional groupings of trees and huts protruding from the water. The stilted shacks were so flirting with the waterline, that if our boat had not slowed, the wake would surely have washed right through them. This seemingly perilous condition was in no way evident on the smiling faces of countless children that waived and shouted to us as we passed. Their alternatives for entertainment seemed limited as a swim or a boat ride were their only near-term hopes for escaping their crowded home/islands.

As advertised, we were an exception to the norm in Battambang. We were however greeted warmly and treated well by the locals. Our favorite restaurant even worked with us to prepare a Thanksgiving dinner. It was a special event not because we splurged on roast chicken and champagne, but because we were able to share it with friends. After a few days together our party of six had reached a point natural conclusion and was poised to disband toward different horizons. When Carrie and I decided to stay one more day and celebrate Thanksgiving, we were warmed to hear our friends (three Irish and a Kiwi) say they wanted to stay and celebrate an American holiday with us. Perhaps we were all just leery of leaving. The others were braving a train with rumored free passage in the first car (affectionately named the "bomb sweeper"). We were finally going to face one of the notorious roads we had so far avoided. I knew I have been grinding down my "addiction to comfort" brick for over a year now, but this was a true test.

At dawn, we (and our packs) joined 16 others (no exaggeration) in the back of Nissan pickup (there were six more in the cab). We bounced over roads that had been bombed heavily in the war and flooded annually by the monsoons since. There were literally pot holes that the entire vehicle descended into before beginning its climb out. Still, we were lucky. By leaving from Battambang, our journey to the Thai border was only 4 hours. The trip from Siem Reap would have been twice as long. If it had rained, all bets were off. In retrospect, it was uncomfortable but short of miserable and we survived. What more could we ask for? (there simply wasn’t room in the truck for the brick of high expectation)