London, it's the new Phnom Penh!

I knew something was odd as soon as we landed in London.

It wasn’t just the tropical heat, or even the unusual scent of jasmine. It certainly wasn’t that it took hours for my bag to arrive. It was more basic than that: with no trains or busses - or even black cabs - how was I to get into town?

Then I noticed a group lolling in hammocks and playing chess, under a handpainted ‘Tower Tuktuks’ sign. These were no chirpy cockney cabbies, but a bunch of itinerant Yorkshiremen, come to the big city to drive their battered British Leyland tuktuks.

“Where yer go?” an old guy asked sleepily.

“St Paul’s Pagoda”. I felt I should explain: “To the new exhibition at the Tate T’mai”.

A friendly shrug and we set off. We circled the airport twice before I realized the poor bloke had no idea where he was going. “Just follow the Tonle Thames uncle” I growled.

We chugged along the riverbank with its colourful tourist dragonboats, past the sparkling new Cambodia-Britain friendship hospital at Hammersmith and the Cameron Academy at Chelsea.

Suddenly a monstrous black machine roared past us, forcing us towards the ditch. “Lewisham Lexus lout!” cursed my driver.

At the corner of the Royal Palace a uniformed man with a black breast-shaped helmet stood in the road. It was reassuring to see a friendly London bobby, even with a cigarette on his lip and shirt rolled up exposing his belly.

“Road closed brother” the policeman barked. “MyBoy London Marathon today!”. To my astonishment my driver nonchalantly slipped a dollar bill into the officer’s outstretched palm, and drove on. Surely there isn't now corruption in Her Majesty’s Constabulary?

To recover I asked him to stop for food. Sadly my favorite chip shop at Phsar Covent had developed an unpleasant fish-sauce stink, and a pack of skinny dogs lurked menacingly outside Khmer Fried Chicken. So I went round the corner to Pret a Mango for comfort food - what wonderful sweet sticky rice they now serve!

Finally we reached the pagoda and I thrust a few dollars at my grateful driver. The South Bank was as vibrant as ever, with stalls of pirate DVDs jostling for custom with “”Same Same” t-shirt vendors, tastefully accompanied by the latest asiapop from huge sound systems.

Outside the Tate, gallery staff played volleyball, resulting in an unruly scrum for tickets within. In fairness demand was high: they were cheap thanks to cultural development aid from Cambodia. And the subject was popular – the public gazed adoringly at the beautiful mountain of plastic bags which engulfed the turbine hall.

I soon retired to the Apsara Arms for a litre of imported Kingdom Ale. What a day! This was still the same London, but it was also now so different.

As I swatted half heartedly at mosquitoes and idly pushed icecubes round my glass, I finally realized what was so surprising about all this.

It wasn’t so much that London had suddenly become like Phnom Penh.

It was simply that everyone had started smiling!

Thank you for smoking

These are challenging times for those of us who love and profit from smoking in Cambodia.

Happily this country remains one of the most free in the world. The ultral-liberal regime may still permit pretty open sale of guns, girls and ganja, but it also means you can still enjoy a guiltless cigarette just about anywhere.

Two key forces ensure such freedoms continue here, in stark contrast to their growing erosion worldwide.

Firsty - well, it’s the Economy, stupid!

Conditions for business here are close to ideal. Staff costs are unbelievably low, workers do as they are told, and there are no irritations such as employment or health and safety legislation. What a breath of fresh air compared with the unionized, nanny-states of the west!

What’s more, there is virtually no tax here! Tell that to any businessman – be he selling cigarettes or lung-cancer drugs – and his greedy little eyes will light up! In the absence of a legal framework, informal payments are necessary to ensure the right permissions and the avoidance of complications – but it’s just business, and everyone has their price. We’re not complaining - and we’re not exactly going to start a moral crusade are we?

This is the crux of our commercial success here. As long as tobacco is understood to be good for the economy, employing staff and contributing to government finances, then we will be allowed to go about our lawful business in peace. In Cambodia we still draw in over 40% of adults and turnover more than a hundred million dollars a year – not to be wheezed at!

Fortunately the alleged ‘’costs’ of smoking - dubious estimates of healthcare expenditure, days lost to work and low productivity of dying smokers - are far less tangible (and largely borne by poor individuals not powerful politicians). Do you know how many Cambodians die every year from smoking-related diseases? Thought not – nor do the Ministry of Health! As long as we bankroll wages and proffer‘’informal payments’ our position will remain strong.

Secondly, Education. Everyone knows cigarettes taste good. They are sociable, and sexy, an ideal cash cow in a country where half of the population are under 30. A pack of cigarettes is cheaper than a bowl of rice – it will even help stave off the hunger pangs!

It’s true that cigarettes aren’t quite as integral to society as they once were. At weddings, Cambodian brides rarely offer their groom a cigarette, nor are packets placed on guests’ tables. In pagodas, it’s rare to see monks smoking, and not so common to offer tobacco on spirit houses. Even prime minister Hun Sen no longer puffs in public.

However, thanks to successful advertising, everyone knows of their choice of products and are reminded of the benefits of particular brands. Advertising penetration is both deep and culturally sensitive – not merely billboards in towns, but traditional banners in villages, and best of all scrolling messages on ubiquitous karaoke videos – genius!

Of course we need to be smart: illiberal western-style legislation is threatened, and even a sympathetic government and a public rightly skeptical of authoritarian measures taken ‘for their own good’’ may be forced by the powerful international health lobby to ban adverts.

Don’t worry – most people here don’t see smoking as bad for their health – after all, with an average life expectancy of barely 60, folk have more immediate threats. Smoking is still widely socially acceptable – even in hospital wards (even by hospital staff in hospital wards!).

Rest assured we will not sit idly and allow the interfering health lobby to prevail. We will protect our profits and the rights of smokers. Nobody does smoke and mirrors better than us! We are already diversifying our message delivery: see if you can spot our sponsorship of soap operas, paid-for magazine features, even teaching awards; look out for more subtle branding of Thai fashion products, subliminal pop and harnessing the addiction to khmer boxing.

Even stronger than adverts are role models. Most children still see their parents or close relatives smoking, quietly preparing our next generation of customers.

Better still, an astonishing number of westerners in Camboida give priceless help in reinforcing the message that smoking is cool. It couldn’t be better: despite countless reasons to think otherwise, white people are still held in great esteem and their actions closely watched and mimicked. So it’s a godsend to our industry to see so many pale puffers (some even working for NGOs with health programmes!) in the trendy bars of Phnom Penh and Siem Reap. This is advertising that money simply cannot buy. Thank you so much for your support!

So whilst the smoking freedoms of the rest of the world risk being extinguished by attacks from unelected anti-smoking lobbyists, I’m heartened to report that it’s business as usual here in Cambodia.

So thank you, once again, for smoking.

Go To Jail

Ever played Junior Monopoly?

For children, it’s a great introduction to the famous game: properties have become themepark rides, but you still have the fun of building houses / hotels and awaiting reluctant guests, albeit in a simplified way.

Money remains paramount - the aim is still to secure a monopoly by crushing all others. You soon know which children will be foolish public sector workhorses and which have the financial incompetence / dastardliness to become bankers!

It’s not quite the real deal though. Coloured plastic counters replace the metal dog, car, iron (what’s the fun without squabbling over who gets the boot?). You can no longer win second prize in a beauty contest.

Worst of all, there is no GO TO JAIL bombshell, replaced with a harmless visit to the restrooms!

Back in Cambodia, a world away from benign boardgames, I spent this afternoon in a very real jail – the provincial penitentiary in my nearest town of Sisophon. It was quite an experience.

It all came about thanks to Mary, a VSO education volunteer who just doesn’t understand that when the schools break for summer that’s the cue to swan off on holiday.

Rather, she stayed behind to dash round with the energy of a seven year old rolling the dice (she’s nearer seventy), trying to cajole and persuade anyone who will listen that they need to help improve the lot of women prisoners.

It’s a hard task. There’s not much in the way of a Community Chest, and I don’t detect much sympathy for prisoners here. Perhaps people have enough to worry about. There certainly seems to be a great deal of shame and lost face if a friend or family member is jailed. And maybe people think criminals get what they deserve: as a victim of a few petty crimes myself I have some sympathy with this view.

But things aren’t quite like that here. Most inmates are young and uneducated. Many are convicted of smuggling drugs from nearby Thailand (they are the ‘mules’ of course, those in charge don’t generally end up in prison). It’s not right, but it’s pretty clear to me they were driven to it through poverty and helplessness, for the lack of any other way to make a living. Or they may be completely innocent - framed, or taking the rap for someone else - but if they are poor they’ll get banged up just the same.

And they are all poor, by definition: in a country which ranks 154th out of 178 in Transparency International’s latest corruption perceptions index, you can be sure that the only people in prison are those who can’t afford to bribe their way out of the so-called ‘justice’ system.

The prison itself is a series of low yellowy concrete buildings on the edge of town. The buildings themselves are fairly new, and on first sight it could have been a school or hospital (two other hotels with generally reluctant guests!).

But inside it’s pretty desperate. There are 12 cells holding a total of 123 women (you can do the maths). Each prisoner has even less than the paltry 2 square metres minimum demanded by international law. The walls and floors are bare concrete, with a shared toilet and sink in the corner. A hose pipe is as near as they get to a shower.

We were kept waiting for half an hour before being allowed to see the prisoners – apparently for them to be searched ‘for your safety’. I’m not convinced we were in much danger from the shy, innocent-looking girls who crammed into the corridor to gaze at us - though like zoo animals in tiny cages I guess such cramped conditions are bound to lead to stress.

We had come so Katja could talk with the women about health, particularly how to avoid sexually transmitted diseases. The session was actually really good fun - as we appeared they gave us an impromptu round of applause, and we got big laughs as we put condoms onto cucumbers and I produced a phallic carrot for the demonstration.

But behind the smiles I’m sure were heaps of sadness. The guards were charm itself, but I couldn’t help thinking of stories of brutality once our backs were turned.

Perhaps worst of all was the sight of children in prison - 17 in all. Whatever their mums may have done, they are innocent and seeing them grow up in a prison is heartbreaking.

Their life is a long way from the fun of a Monopoly game. I hope, through the good work of Mary and those like her, they may get out of jail and take a chance at a better life.

Who needs electricity?

What happens if you don’t pay your electricity bill?

Well your mail from United Utilities may turn a bit red. If you’re not careful you risk a sharp phone call or two. If you really fail to pay you endanger your credit rating.

The ultimate sanction is for the power company to stop their service – to ‘cut you off’. Fortunately that’s pretty rare – after all, we accept electricity as a fundamental requirement for living. We need it to run essentials like flatscreen tellies and hairdryers (along with little luxuries like lighting and heating).

At least, that’s how it is for a householder in somewhere like the UK. But what if the customer is a hospital. And you’re in Cambodia?

Well, one thing is your ‘need’ is pretty great. Your lights aren’t just for reading to the kids, they allow midwives to deliver them. The machines being powered are xrays not xboxes.

And yet, rather than being seen as somehow more important than a private home, when my hospital got into a dispute with the local generator company over unpaid bills, what did those with the power do?

That’s right - they pulled the plug on the entire site! Can you imagine the scandal if a power company cut off your local hospital? It’s unthinkable, and rightly so. Sure, we must all pay our dues. But never should disputes get to the stage that the ultimate sanction is enacted. That would be stupid, not to mention immoral. But it’s exactly what just happened here.

So I now work in a hospital which has no electricity. Well, that’s not quite true – we do have an ‘emergency’ diesel generator, and this is begrudgingly booted if a pesky patient needs an xray (and casually cranked whenever a government bigwig needs fanning).

It's little consolation that I'm now receiving better-late-than-never praise for getting some solar power working in the hospital. Thanks to generous donations from back home we replaced the batteries in 4 wards just last month, and persuaded the donor to install panels on the new surgery unit at the last moment. Why oh why isn’t solar fitted as standard on important buildings in a country with such poor infrastructure yet such brilliant sunshine?

As weeks turn to months we seem to be no nearer a solution, and it’s getting more and more difficult to look after patients. Even a low tech hospital uses electricity for a surprising number of things. When Katja asked the nurses why there was no documentation for a women who had been beaten almost to death by her husband, they had a novel excuse – how could they keep records when they can no longer use the photocopier? Even more basic: the new children’s ward has a scruffy handwritten note on the locked door to its beautifully appointed new toilet block: “no power, no water, no entry”.

What can I do? Well, I’ve tried to understand what caused the initial dispute, but having asked ten times I’ve now heard a dozen different stories, and sense I’m no nearer the truth. The bottom line is that if they thought I could assist they would have asked me by now. One thing I’ve learned here is that trying to impose my ‘help’ when it’s not asked for will only make my colleagues embarrassed and me frustrated.

So I gave a big sweaty shrug (no power means no fans either), and carried on. Maybe it’s not so bad. For one, our hospital doesn’t have much fancy electrical equipment - very few 'things that go bing'. What’s more, electricity isn’t the only source of power - small bits of kit often use batteries, and the fridges in the lab actually run from gas cylinders. We certainly don’t need heating, but cooling would be nice, and the fans do need power - but they weren't turned on for patients even before we were cut off (“too expensive”). And lights aren’t really used much either – when it’s dark you go to bed, don’t you?

Nevertheless, I really hope we get our electric back soon, not least for the selfish reason that I want an office with power. If not, future blogs may need solar internet or gas-powered computers. Dare I suggest my blogging may be a little like my power supply – it may not light up your world, but you might just miss it if someone pulls the plug.

In praise of… A Great Volunteer!

Like your family, you can’t choose your colleagues, but some of us do get extraordinarily lucky.

This was the final week for my colleague Alison as a VSO volunteer, and today was her bitter-sweat last visit to the hospital at Thmar Puok.

To put it simply, she is the best colleague I’ve ever had. With her, my experience as a volunteer, whilst bumpy at times, has been enormously rewarding and eternally memorable. Without her, well, I’m not even sure I’d be here writing this.

I actually met Alison’s partner Paul first – on our training at VSO’s charmingly creaky Harbourne Hall (the greatest course I’ve ever been privileged to attend by the way – bar none). We had to role-play culturally difficult situations: he depicted a dirty old man and me a heartless young playboy – no typecasting there I assure you!

I then met Alison as we flew to Cambodia – only thrown together in the same group of volunteers at the last minute when placements in Indonesia were withdrawn.

My first impressions were of Alison’s laughter and joie de vivre – something I was to grow not only to love but also rather depend on. She has an irresistibly happy face, and her dirty laugh is equally infectious!

Our placements started inauspiciously – together with another amazing lady, the marvelous septuagenarian Mary, the four of us wedged into an overloaded truck for the 8 hour journey to our northern province. By then we knew that cramming vehicles high with goods is a local sport, so we were surprised to be stopped no fewer than 14 times by the police for ‘’overloading’’ – swiftly resolved by our first introduction to ‘informal payments’ (otherwise known as a bribe).

As we started work in our respective hospitals, I found myself relying heavily on Alison as a respected colleague and confidante. Our focus as health volunteers was (in theory at least) on improving child and maternal health, so Alison’s skills as an experienced children’s nurse were invaluable. I helped make the new children’s ward more child-friendly and advised on quality assessment, but only she had the expertise to advise on administering drugs and the knowledge to tell the right end of a sphygmomanometer.

One of her greatest innovations – inspired by her assistant Sokha – was education sessions for carers, initially at her base hospital in Mongkul Barey. Family members provide personal care such as feeding, washing and toileting as well as vital emotional support, and to tell the truth can spend hours just hanging round waiting for their loved ones to recover or die. As such they are a prime target for an opportunistic health promoter! Soon carers flocked to the events, and not only learned important messages about hygiene, nutrition and preventing disease, but were also given the power to raise issues and even complain – a rare sight in Cambodia.

So popular were the sessions that they soon became a weekly event, and Alison was able to hand over the organization to enthusiastic local staff. In her ever self-depreciating manner she joked that in the end she was only wheeled out to talk about two things Cambodians just can’t get their heads around – stopping smoking and starting wearing moto helmets!

The fact that the sessions are now owned and run locally is no accident – it is a key part of Alison’s approach to volunteering, and one of the most important lessons she taught me. Now, whenever I think of starting a project or running a workshop I hear Alison’s voice asking “and which Cambodian colleague will be leading this with me?” It’s easy but short-termist to just do stuff, much harder but far more useful to build the capacity of others. I knew the theory, but Alison showed me how to do it in practice like no other volunteer I’ve met.

So much for praise about her work. More important than anything was that I could always escape my village to be welcomed into Alison and Paul’s boutique shack, where she would patiently counsel me on the latest frustrations whilst I greedily consumed their home comforts – in particular Alison’s cupcakes and cheese salads, not forgetting Paul’s expertise as trumpet player, piano maestro and whingeing Liverpool fan. They even put up with my all-night internet sessions and squealing whenever a mouse joined me in bed – that goes way beyond just a good workmate!

There may be a useful lesson here for volunteer organizations: if you are clever or lucky enough to find the personal fit, there are enormous benefits in the support, encouragement and camaraderie of other volunteers. I certainly learned a huge amount and believe that the best contributions we have made have been working as a team.

So as we hang around for a ‘taxi’ to take her down the bumpy road to Sisophon one last time I feel thankful not only for the skills and knowledge but also the kindness, companionship, positivity and humanity I have been privileged to enjoy from this exceptional volunteer.

I’ll miss you Alison – Thmar Puok’s loss is Phnom Penh’s gain, but there will always be a welcome for you in this remote corner of Cambodia which you helped so much and which misses you already. Thank you, to the best colleague ever!

Red Lights and Green Lizards

My friend and colleague Dr Jerker recently gave me a copy of this beautifully-written book by Liz Anderson, a VSO volunteer in Cambodia in 1991.

Whilst written nearly twenty years ago, many of her descriptions are just as pertinent today.

Here are my favourite bits:

On socks: It was James’ pink socks that made the most impression on me that first day; amazingly they were still flashing about when we left two years later

On Cambodians: Two attributes of the complex Cambodian character we learned immediately; they are gregarious, and they are noisy

On traffic: The rule of the road is, officially, keep to the right, but unofficially it is the law of the bullyboy. Biggest is best and woe betide you if you forget it

On hotels: The overpowering stench of other people’s urine must have been enormously titillating to the resident family of cockroaches who after all had got there first

On nosiness: It was fortunate that we liked the chambermaid, for she spent an increasing amount of time in our room… She used to invite her friends and relations, too. A half empty bottle of rice wine under our bed was a sure sign that her husband had been visiting

On learning Khmer: Their language in theory should not be difficult to learn, for there is little in the way of grammar, just a multitude of words. But these are words the like of which we had never heard before… Everything had to be written down phonetically in a series of exercise books [which] bore, in English, the blue printed legend ‘The Solid and Commodious Note Book that is Starched is Very Useful for Study’

On learning Khmer (2): Dara was an excellent teacher, living up to his name which means ‘a star’… We laughed a great deal, at ourselves and at each other, but mainly at our comedian of a school-master, whose great fat belly continuously wobbled and bounced in time to his guffaws and giggles.

On learning Khmer (3): Apparently all that is needed to transform the teaching of prepositions is for a pupil to fall OFF a bike INTO a hole, or FROM a bike DOWN a hole, or… the variety, in Dara’s hands, was unending. And it was all accompanied by pictures on the board of pin-men fling THROUGH the air, and of course by huge fat wobbly chuckles

On illness: the diarrhea that was a continuously lurking and insidious unpleasantness, something we never really learn to live with

On stories of Khmer Rouge suffering: After moths of near starvation, he and his family had eventually reached the refugee camp… On arrival they were given food but warned to eat it slowly; their stomachs, accustomed for so long to little but water with a few grains of rice floating in it to make a ‘soup’, would be unable to cope with a big meal. For Dara’s little brother, the warning fell on deaf ears. He was a hungry child with food in front of him, and he ate. He died as a result

On the fall of Lon Nol: To uncaring outside observers, the whole thing smacked of farce. The world laughed at his tiny general, who had tiny furniture built to make him look tall by comparison. They laughed at the name of his military spokesman, Am Rong. The tears would come all too soon

On US bombing of Cambodia: Although officially out of the war, the US still needed their Cambodian ally to continue ‘their’ war against the communists. The Nixon administration sanctioned the bombing of the Khmer Rouge, and for two hundred days and nights a fleet of B52s dropped another 250,000 bombs on Cambodian soil

On work ethic: Pot Pot’s… whole idea was based on a ethic of work, work that was relentless and without respite

On life under Khmer Rouge: Dancing and music, idle conversation, even lovemaking, were banned

On street sounds: All sorts of wares were on mobile sale. There was the ice cream van, a handcart pushed by its owner, the bell on its shaft struck regularly in time to his step… Bread sellers mounted on bicycles declared their wares, the mournful ‘Noom-pang’… But my favourites were the noodle sellers, in early mornings and late evenings. A young boy would stroll down the street, tapping a stick on a flute-sized bamboo. The rhythm was intricate and the site of impact wandered up and down the bamboo, creating different notes. The result was a wistful almost-tune that to all of us came to encapsulate the whole scene. Following several minutes later came the hand pushed trolley, hot Chinese noodles aboard.

On music: Music was everywhere. All Cambodian ceremonial events have their own accompaniment, seemingly played as loudly as possible. A marriage or a death celebrated in a residential street, sometimes for days on end, can literally drive neighbours out of house and home…

On hospitals: Row upon row of rusty iron bedsteads without mattresses or bed-clothes, each with its drip-stand supporting a virulent yellow infusion bag, the contents couloured by a mixture of useless vitamins. Drips are an obsession, to every Cambodian and essential part of treatment on admission to hospital. That such ‘remedies’ could do far more harm than good was a very hard lesson for the Khmer doctors to learn

On the Mekong: An immense and awe-inspiring stretch of water, always a turgid milk chocolate brown and speckled with picturesque fishing boats

On rich and poor: The swimming pool at the Cambodiana… To the younger and more idealistic volunteers the comparison produced a huge philosophical dilemma. We were not here as tourists… To us old ones, hardened to the ways of the world, this posed little problem, I regret to say… But some could never bring themselves to go there. The contrast was too great.

On the Khmer Rouge: We had read about the murder of children by the simple expedient of swinging their heads against a tree. We had read of the typical case of the mother lashed to a treetrunk, watching her new baby laid on the ground to die of heat stroke, carefully placed just outside her reach… But sitting book in hand in a comfortable chair in a comfortable English home, such stories… had seemed disconnected from our own lives that their reality could be shirked. Now we could no longer avoid confronting the undeniable truth that these things had actually happened, here by the steps on which we sat

On schoolchildren: Perhaps it is the uniformity of colour not just of shirts but of hair too that makes massed Asian schoolchildren look so much smarter than their European counterparts

On the seaside: There can be few who have suffered a damp and near naked embrace by a Corsican bandit in the languid waters of the South China Sea

On volunteering: This was why we had come, why we were putting up with heat, sweat, mosquitoes, infected sores, diarrhea and emotional slaughter

Are Cambodians Lazy?

We’ve all thought it – so why can’t we just come out and say it?

One of the main frustrations of being a volunteer in a country like Cambodia is, bluntly, getting anything done. As advisors we work with and through our Cambodian colleagues – we advise, and they are the ones who actually do things.

So we push and we prod with our westerner’s energy and enthusiasm. And they gaze at us, somewhere between amusement and bemusement… And then gently ignore our wise advice and carry on as before.

I guarantee that every volunteer has at least once boiled over with the frustration of thwarted ambition and blurted ‘they’re just so bloody lazy!’.

And who can blame us? Wander round my village and the abiding image is of people sleeping. There is a whole culture of hammock life here, from the vigourous swinging of tiny babies to the gentle sway of ancient wrinklies.

This is especially true - and particularly galling - at my hospital. Luckily there’s no shortage of beds, so staff are never far from the next nap. There’s also a handy tamarind tree, which is great for lazing round, out of earshot of groaning patients. If you really can’t sleep, there are always endless games of volleyball to keep you from slipping back to your job.

The first thing I saw in the hospital boardroom was a cleaner asleep on the table. Can you imagine that in a western country? And yesterday I had difficulty working in my office due to the volume of the snores coming from the next room!

Even some Khmer people admit it. The hospital director regularly berates staff for simply not bothering to turn up for work when they are on call. And he’s given up even expecting any staff to work in the afternoons – if you must be ill, make sure it’s mornings only!

So there’s the rant. Any mitigating circumstances?

Well yes. For one, the climate. It’s not just that heat and humidity slows you down (thought it certainly does). It’s also that it changes the day's dynamic – basically, it makes sense to avoid the heat of the day, and compress activity to the early mornings or late afternoons.

And boy are Cambodians early risers! Even before the cocks start crowing there is a buzz of activity outside my house – men chopping wood (or even building houses), women sweeping or cooking. I don’t get up until 6: that makes me the lazy one!

And it’s not just domestic chores which start early. Farmers are trundling off for the grueling work of their rice fields from 5 every morning (that’s every morning, seven days a week). The market next to me is sold out of bananas before I even rise, and still open when I go to bed. I didn’t even know about the lady selling delicious coconut waffles until recently – because she finishes at 7am.

So not all Cambodians are lazy. But that doesn’t help us volunteers! Perhaps it is more of a problem for us as we tend to work with the worst offenders – health and education. But surely these are some of the most important of all jobs, and the most damaging if they are shirked?

True, but valuing the likes of teachers and health workers needs government leadership. The state here pays such workers around a dollar a day – can we really expect dedicated, hard working staff in return? Given this pitiful income, of course they will take other jobs in the afternoons, to make ends meet. It’s still wrong to dodge your responsibilities, and certainly to take bribes from patients or pupils, or steal equipment – but it’s easy to see why it is tempting.

Furthermore, let’s not tar everyone in schools and hospitals with the indolence brush! Tell me if this sounds lazy: yesterday my translator was up at 4am picking mushrooms and chopping wood. Around 5 he collected water from the pond, then took care of his young boys whilst his wife cooked rice porridge. At 6 he taught English to a group of children in the makeshift classroom under his wooden house. At 7 he popped into his school for a quick meeting with other teachers. And he was still in the hospital before me, as I dragged myself in bleery-eyed for the ridiculously early 7.30am start. Who could blame him if he wants rice and a snooze by 11?

Finally, even when there is a certain laziness – is that always such a bad thing?

I certainly don’t condone skiving off when you should be on call, or ignoring patients in need. But one of the best lessons I’ve learned from my Cambodian friends and colleagues is the value of slowing down a little. There is little of the stress here of western life – no packed diaries, road rage, executive burnout – and isn’t that a good thing?

So as I swing in my hammock and watch the hard-working farmers return from their fields, my answer to the question of whether Cambodians are lazy is as follows: “No – well not everyone… but yes, some… though maybe that’s not always a bad thing… oh I don’t know. Can’t you let me sleep?”.