Unsure of how long it would take me to locate Chin’s monastery, I woke up early, again, so that I could go meet him and get back in time to get some breakfast before heading out with Jenny. All I had was the name of his monastery and the district of town that it was located in. I walked across the street from my guesthouse to the hoard of drivers sitting over there waiting for someone to need a ride. I walked out of the guesthouse with the specific purpose of hiring one of them, which they picked up on right away and surrounded me as soon as I was near, all shouting prices, telling me they were the best driver for the job, that they’d give me the best tour of the city, take me to Angkor Wat, etc. Some of them spoke remarkable English, and some of them were pretty convincing salesmen, but for such a simple ride, and a remedial task, I wanted to hire one of the guys who seemed like he may not get as much work as the rest of them, so I picked out one of the older, quieter guys in the group and started trying to explain to him where I wanted to go. There was an absolute lapse in communication as he spoke no English whatsoever, but fortunately, the good willed Cambodians held no ill will towards him for my choosing him rather than them and were eager to help him figure out where I wanted to go. I envisioned this scenario happening place in Chicago, and saw the cabbies having a bad attitude towards me for not choosing them and leaving my chosen driver and me on our own, but not here, here they seemed happy to help, even with no hope for financial gain.

With a vague concept of where we wanted to go, I hopped on the back of my driver’s motorbike. I suppose it makes sense in retrospect, but since this driver probably gets less work, he was unable to afford a sweet bike like some of the other guys who were bigger hustlers, his was a mid-70’s Honda motorcycle with a seat made for about one and a half people, leaving me hanging halfway off the back while still pretty much wrapping my legs right around him.

We headed over to the vicinity of the monastery and I just started shouting the name of it to passersby as we drove trying to solicit some idea of where it was and if we were headed in the right direction. Through a series of right and wrong directions from pedestrians, we ended up on a small road that ran perpendicular to the main road through town and we headed down it. Having rained a tad the night before, the dirt road was now thick mud with several holes whose depth was immeasurable by looking at it. My brilliant driver did an excellent job of negotiating this terrible section of road, weaving clear across the width of it in an attempt to dodge certain capsizing, until we came to a patch where the road was flooded from side to side. His mantra seemed to be to just maintain velocity and we would push our way through anything, so without hesitating, we punched it and we headed straight into what turned out to be about two feet of water, hitting a relatively large pothole halfway through it nearly sending us to the ground. Somehow he pulled it off and we emerged from this swamp on the other side, unscathed, and covered in mud from the knee down. Fortunately I was wearing flip flops and the same denim shorts I’d been wearing for a week, so now I was disgustingly dirty; nothing a hose can’t take care of though.

As it turned out, we had a bit of an audience standing nearby who got a kick out of the sight of my five and a half foot driver driving a six and a half foot westerner through a massive puddle, but were the most helpful people we had come across thus far and informed us, through a lot of pointing and gesturing, that the monastery was about 30 yards down the street, in the direction we’d just come from. Thankful for their directions, but resentful of their not having been standing on the nearside of the lake, we boarded our hog and make a sweeping u-turn to hit the monstrosity head on once again, this time with a bit less speed and a good idea of which line not to take through it, and we made it through without a hitch, more mud, but no potholes.

We stopped next to what looked sort of like dorms; a row of about ten huts with monks robes hanging out to dry in front of them across the road from a temple. I got off the bike and made sure my driver knew he was driving me back and to not leave me at the monastery, and I began walking around looking for someone to ask about Chin Vanna’s whereabouts. Right as I walked into the little dirt courtyard that all of the huts lead out to, Chin emerged from one of them with the large metal bowl that young monks are always seen carrying and his robe half wrapped around him. With his upper body exposed it was clear that the students, while educated for free, are certainly malnourished; his ribs all stuck out and his arms couldn’t have been any bigger around than those of a twelve year olds. He was just as surprised to see me as I was to have him be the first person I saw at the monastery. He came over and we greeted one another. He saw that I had the book in my hand and seemed in utter shock that I had pulled through in not only buying the book but in tracking him down at his home to deliver it. I tried for a minute to ask him how his night was, how his morning was going, and what he was doing today, but soon remembered how difficult small talk is with a difficultly penetrated language barrier, and promptly moved on to the subject of the book. I looked down at the photocopied version of “The Alchemist” and handed it to him, he grabbed it from my hand with humility and seemed almost ashamed to be taking the gift, but equally as excited and thankful for it. In his broken English he said thank you and that he was really looking forward to reading it and had spent the night wondering if I would actually show up or not. I told him not to mention it and that it was a pleasure to meet him and that I was very fond of him. He then said, “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for this.” My first inclination was that he meant monetarily, but I quickly shed that thought and realized he meant he wouldn’t ever be able to repay the good deed. I merely told him not even to think about that, and that the only thing I wanted in return was for him to read it and allow it to do for his life what the book did for mine. He nodded his head in aggreeance, and thanked me again. Tears had welled up in both of our eyes by this time, and I continued to reiterate his dreams and told him to study hard, work towards his goals, and get out of Cambodia to raise his family out from under the corruption and aside from the poverty that his family was buried in. Unable to respond, we engaged in a long handshake, and knowing we would never see each other again, we bowed to one another, I turned and left. My driver was waiting where I’d left him, and with no way of understanding what was being said between Chin and I, by the smile he had on his face, he knew exactly what was going on. We nodded to one another, acknowledging the moment, and off we rode, down the muddy road. I looked back over my shoulder, and as though out of a movie, I saw Chin looking down at the book, and looking up right as I turned around, we made a final eye contact, he waived, I smiled and nodded, and he disappeared around the corner we just took which almost flung me off of the motorbike since I wasn’t ready for it.

Doing things for people who you will see again feels good. Giving money to a homeless person in your hometown is a great feeling, even though there is the distinct chance that you may run into them again the next time you walk down that street, but doing something completely selfless for someone who you know you will never see again, with out any form of gratification besides your own, is something that’s truly unparalleled.

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