Dusun Quarterly 1

1
Winter 2013/2014
Marvin Chan
Paul GnanaSelvan
Yeo Eng Hin
Lim Kim Hai
Mahesh Mankar
Sivarajah Natarajan
Sokuntevy Oeur
Pua Zhe Xuan
e-journal of Asian Arts and Culture
dusun
quarterly
2
Dusun Quarterly 1 cover by Marvin Chan Editor Martin A Bradley email martinabradley@gmail.com Dusun TM Published by EverDay Art Studio and Educare January 2014
Dusun remains an entirely free and non-associated publication concerned with bringing Asian arts and culture to everyone
3
Dusun Quarterly 1 cover by Marvin Chan Editor Martin A Bradley email martinabradley@gmail.com Dusun TM Published by EverDay Art Studio and Educare January 2014
Dusun remains an entirely free and non-associated publication concerned with bringing Asian arts and culture to everyone
dusun
quarterly
4
inside....
6 Editorial
Marvin Chan, Scent of Bali 9
20 Sivarajah Natarajan, Ahimsa
Paul GnanaSelvam, Lathas Christmas 28
30 Malaya Booked, what others wrote..
Lim Kim Hai, Optical Optimism 36
48 Zhe Xuan Fine Art Gallery
Yeo Eng Hin, Rediscover Angkor 56
5
Winter2013/2014
68 Poem - In the Buddha Garden
Postcards from Cambodia 72
98 Sokuntevy Oeur, Secrets
Mahesh Mankar, Watercolours 108
68 Poem - In the Buddha Garden
122 In Search of Lost Christmas
The Launch of Uniquely Toro 130
137 Doraemon
On the Streets in Cambodia 146
6
It doesnt seem that very long ago that my waist was a slender 28 inches,
my hair was a succulent dark brown and anything I ate was burned off
instantly, leaving me trim and thin. Sad to say, that is no longer the case.
One year melds into the next to so surreptitiously that I can hardly
distinguish the one from the other.
January, and all that January might mean for you and I, has popped its
newly born head up above the equator, bringing with it the new Dusun
Quarterly. To better serve its readers and supporters, and to bring
wider content into an e-magazine already brimming with delight and
delectation, Dusun moves from bimonthly to quarterly. This move will
only go to enhance Dusuns reputation as being in the vanguard of Asian
arts and culture e-publications.
Dusun certainly is unique..........it is free!
This issue is as chock full as Forest Gumps box of chocolates, mixing
hard and soft centres to tease and satiate your tastes. Cambodia, India,
Malaysia and the Philippines spill their secrets and lay their wares at your
feet. There are reviews, insight and favours of strange street food to
digest, and hopefully have you coming back for more.
Martin Bradley Editor.
dusun
quarterly
editors note
7
8
Malaysia...
8
999
Anggiy #3
10
Scent of Bali
Marvin Chan
Gallery Dusun
10
Yunda #1 & #2 (opposite)
11
12 12
Yunda #5
13 13
I believe that when an opportunity arises,
I am never prepared to deal with it
other than to accept it as a means to question
my current thinking from a new aspect.
In dismantling old methods we get to redesign ourselves and possibly make
the way we do thing
Anggiy #1
14 14
Anggiy #2
15 15
Visitor
16
Nita #3
17 17
Changes that arise within my comprehension
play a large role in my work,
because of how these incidences impact my identity.
The brush strokes sometimes mimic a murmur,
a scream or even a song,
and my work is like a silvertone, recording what I feel.
I am chasing a sense of what I feel, in my work.
Nita #4
18 18
Yunda #3
19 19
Yunda #4
20
A singular vision in a dream changed Sivarajah Natarajans
view of animals and their suffering in relation to humans.
It was a macabre vision of hells purgatory of which the
victims were animals. Tortured, maimed and decimated,
they made an everlasting nightmarish impression that
has haunted Sivarajah ever since. Their pitiful screams
and howlings rankled the dank air as they were dragged
to the slaughter house in an Auschwitz manner. Worst,
Sivarajahs beloved Sutra pets passed by in Dante-esque
fle, spoke with human voice, chastising and cursing him for
his corroboration.
Sivarajah woke up with a start. From then on he became
intensely sensitive to the mute creatures around him. He
realises that they are not unfeeling entities to be discarded
and be simply taken for granted. They are in fact intensively
aware and are special Gods gifts, beings who are every bit
capable of feeling emotions as we humans are. Images of
their suffering from his nightmare return whenever he sees
them a passing stray dog or cat, birds in fight, helpless
caged animals about to be slaughtered resigning to their
impending doom, those in the wild, and those in plight of
a precarious survival in a material world the complex
situation of balancing the eco- existence of man with his
fellow creatures became an unresolved paradox, a knotted
conundrum that hovers within his mind.
Sivarajah developed abhorrence for meat and aversion to
the killing of animals for food. He became a vegetarian.
Ahimsa was born from the above revelation.
Sivarajahs latest series of paintings, Ahimsa, is a bold
Sivarajah Natarajan.
Press Release Dusun
Clown of God
Crossing Zebra & Semar
Ahimsa
21
Beauty & The Beast (iv)
22
departure from -- but at the same time, a continuation of -- his former
works. In Ahimsa, Siva grapples with a different subject matter. He is no
longer dealing with the human form caught in the ecstasy of dance a
subject which has been his forte. He is now in the realm of a much
more complex subject of expressing his compassion of the need for a
common ground of the two seemingly divergent and disastrous destinies
of human and fate of animals. At the same time, he communicates his
message with the fat two-dimensional pop art an approach which has
been the hallmark of his last few series.
The word Ahimsa (originated from Sanskrit) became the Hindu and
Buddhist doctrine of renouncing from hurting any living being. It is one
of the virtues of ancient Hindu views. It may have originated as a protest
against nomadic Aryan blood sacrifces and was later directed against
capital punishment, and then later adopted by Buddhists and Jains as a
moral code against war. The words association with austerity, charity and
its declaration that non-injury and truthfulness are inseparable, is known
to us. Whilst the credit belongs to the Upanishads, its dissemination and
Avatar,The Wild Boar
23
practical application belong to the Jains and Buddhists and to Emperor
Ashoka.
Sivarajahs adopted message in his exhibition Ahimsa is veiled in a Zen
koan of sort. His visual enigmatic commentary poses a non-answer of a
different kind. Nothing is as simple as it seems. He does not provide us
with a simplistic solution. Words are often inadequate in our quest for
simplistic answers to the truth of Lifes riddle.
Through his images, Sivarajah makes us think of the universal paradox
of complementarity and of duality; what is exactly perceived by our
limited senses as good and evil, yin and yang, sophisticated and raw,
cultured and wild, beautiful and ugly? Do not all beings in planet Earth
have equal rights to live? Do we truly fathom that we are inseparably
connected in our destinies and that a break in the fragile chain of this
Guardian of the Golden turkey
24
interconnectivity is a fracture in our collective consciousness that would
eventually rupture the eco-balance and be a threat to our own survival
- physical, social and psychical?
Japanese-inspired print blocks of opera characters, such as of the
legendary Madame Butterfy, sleepy-eyed geishas in full regalia, samurai
warriors and gawky wayang kulit wise-clowns are pitted against a myriad
of creatures: the crow, the cat, the dog, the rooster images which dwell
in the elusive maya of tangible things in intangible dynamic spaces.
These spaces occupy our everyday lives in ambiguous ebbs and fows,
in interstices of our conscience and in inexplicable layers of excuses,
hypocrisy and values.
Sivarajah prods our conscience with the juxtaposition of the artifce
of the homo sapiens with the innocence of animals, domesticated or
wild, and their helpless sufferings and fate. The sophisticated and the
cultured are brought in close proximity with the raw, resulting in a
menacingly incongruous and enigmatic encounter. Sivarajahs device of
light and pop-art enthused hues and his grid-like background suggesting
both movement and imprisonment allude to his subjects seeming
detachment, surviving in different realities from each other; his abstract,
daring forms are on occasion complete and at other times fragmented.
The genres in which his images are culled operate in subtle yet salient
visual semantics compelling us to stop in our tracks to ask why, why!?
Sivarajah Natarajan, one of Malaysias most compelling visual artists of the
human form, has explored numerous genres of dances including odissi,
bharatanatyam, gotipua (boy-dancers of Odisha), Balinese and Javanese
court dances, contemporary modern dances and the traditional Malaysian
theatre forms of makyong, menora and main petri. Simultaneously for
two decades, he has closely pursued his professional voyage from being
a visual artist to an award-winning light-and-stage designer. As a visual
artist, Sivarajah has successfully seized and interpreted the tension
between the ecstasy and energy of movement couched within the
divine madness of the dancers spirit in his emotional outbursts. In his
capacity as lighting designer in Sutras numerous productions in some
of the worlds major theatres, Sivarajah paints eloquently with his lights.
In Ahimsa, Sivarajah consolidated the sum total of his experience, baring
his thoughtful and philosophical attitude to life in a veiled message, yet
screaming his Petrushkas cry for affrmation of the human compassion
for his fellow creatures.
Sutra.
Sivarajah Natarajan
Born and raised in Kuala Lumpurs own Brickfelds, Sivarajah Natarajan
graduated from the Malaysian Institute of Arts with a degree in The
Fine Arts in 1992. Known as the dancers painter who deftly captures
the fuid lines of the dancers silhouettes and dynamic movement on
canvas, Sivarajah Natarajan expands the use of his keen eye and instinct
to conjure compelling lighting and set design onstage for Sutra Dance
Theatre. This lighting and set designer, technical director and curator of
Sutra has for over twenty years prepared and projected the mystical
and sacred sites that Sutra performers recreate on stage and on canvas
Tribute to Gundu - The Guardian of Wealth
Sadhu & Ancient Fish
25
as he blurs the lines between illusion and reality by the careful crafting
of mood and atmosphere. A heightened sensitivity for aesthetics refnes
his vision which he also immortalises in photography, completing his
integrated approach to the visual and performing arts.
While Sivarajahs experience in bharatanatyam, odissi, makyong, main
petri, menora, gotipua and chhau productions (amongst others) feeds
his subject matter, his painting repertoire has expanded into subjects as
diverse as fgures in motion to ahimsa (non-violence and compassion
towards fellow creatures). His openness to the arts and self-determined
quest to be true to his calling ensure that his art and style continuously
evolve. His natural talent and devotion to the disciplines secured him
national recognition for the Best Set Design (2005) and Lighting Design
Award (2010) at the BOH Cameronian Annual Awards.
As an artist, Sivarajah has successfully seized the moment and interpreted
his artistic milieu, digesting these experiences and expressing them in
nuggets of compelling images for us to contemplate. An artist who
functions professionally in both the visual and performing arts, Sivarajah is
a rare integrator in the Malaysian artistic scene who shares his sensitive
outpourings in the visual and performing arts with an individualistic and
distinctive Sutra hallmark.
I think I wouldve chosen the same path if I could turn back time. I have
this primal creative instinct which tells me that I am happiest when I am
creating something. Being an artist fulflls an inner hunger within, and
although I have a great respect for the Sciences which has its own calling,
I believe an artist is essentially a creator. The work an artist produces is
or should be unique as it is his or her life statement.

I want my work to amplify physical reality. As such, movement becomes
the most apt subject matter to refect this intense experience. The
physicality of the dancers body becomes the human metaphor for
striving for perfection in composition, design and content on the
canvas. I try to keep evolving and experimenting. New revelations are
discovered as I grapple with each challenge to capture the metaphor to
fathom Lifes quest.
Tribute to Gundu - The Guardian of Wealth
While The Gods Play (II)
26
27
28
A Journeys End
C
hem
m
anu, Thanggapan said in a quiet m
anner, referring to the
billow
ing cum
ulus of dust w
hose deep red stood in contrast w
ith the
blue eyes of the vellaikarars w
ho hed seen standing stoically am
ong the
m
ass of people, trucks and bullock carts at the port.
They cam
e here to this land of gold to escape the drought and m
ake
their fortunes, not know
ing the danger and hardship that w
ould entail
the endeavor: The arduous journey aboard the C
heedam
baram
, m
alaria,
w
ild boars and various beasts, the invading Japanese, and the racial riots
of on M
ay 1969. They had survived it all.
Still, he couldnt give up. Everyone w
as w
atching. This w
as his land now
.
W
hy w
ould it w
ant to test his strength and valour?
Char K
oay Teow, Satu
The very m
ention of the w
ord food court repulsed him
. It w
as a place
w
here they m
easured everything they sold. H
e had seen how
the koay
teow
there w
as fried. First, there w
ere m
easurem
ent bow
ls for big
and sm
all quantities. The noodles w
ere fried w
ith too m
uch oil, w
ith
tw
o puny praw
ns, four pieces of fsh cake, an egg, and a pinch of taugeh
(since kuchai is expensive) and no kerang. Finally, they w
ere dum
ped
into polystyrene boxes that gave neither fragrance nor taste, like the
banana leaf did.
See- Saw
N
ivass attention shifted to the lines on his palm
s and he brought them

closer to the tip of his nose. So jagged, so crooked and faint. A
ll because
of A
h Keong! Should have gone to school, or w
orked beside appa in the
pottery. I can m
ake pots, he rem
em
bered. They sell better than driving
lorries for A
h Keong, he told him
self.
This tim
e, his fathers voice w
as threatening. It w
ent on to say that if
he didnt bend dow
n and dip his fnger into the clay properly, he w
ould
never get the right shape.
A Bird for the Journey
K
am
ala picked up the phone. This tim
e, her fngers did not fail her. She
knew
w
hat she w
anted to say. This Indian habit of the groom
s fam
ily
picking on the brides had to stop. It ends this century!
Lathas Christmas
and Other Stories
By Paul GnanaSelvam
Literary Dusun
29
Monsoon Massage
W
ith the m
ake-up w
ashed off and the baju kurung shed, there w
as
nothing fem
inine on Rezas naked self. Reza had pectoral m
uscles, a
toned body and stubble w
here he had shaved off his body hair. H
e also
had a penis. H
e w
as rather hung for his sm
all build, Kum
ar noted as
he m
ade a m
ental com
parison of sizes. A
penis like that w
ould m
ake
a w
om
an happy. W
hy
it could even m
ake children if Reza w
anted to,
thought Kum
ar.
Lathas Christmas
a new
fear crept in. M
urthys appearance: Long, unkem
pt hair that
he could not afford to cut, his old w
orn shirt, the fading tattoo of a
prancing tiger on his scraw
ny chest and the piercing stare of a hard-
bitten m
an w
ould m
ark him
out as a crim
inal.
The Q
ueen of England and, w
hy, even the w
hole w
orld is too busy for
all this, she had told M
urthy. G
o fnd a job, put the children in school!
That w
ould give them
butter and jam
for breakfast and hot cocoa for
supper!
1,000 Candles
Your brother said just now
your friend cam
e. H
ow
m
any tim
es m
ust
I tell you, not to friend her? Every tim
e you go out w
ith her, you com
e
back late like a sam
seng. A
h Yun ah
you are seventeen, not tw
elve. G
irl
your age m
ust not stay out late at night. W
hat w
ould the neighbours
say? They w
ill blam
e m
e and your father. Say bad things about you. Say
that I never bring you up properly. Then nobody w
ants to m
arry you.
Bring sham
e to the fam
ily! w
arned her m
other.
The Sobbing Pillow
Then, on one such night, I thought I heard the noises.
They usually cam
e alive in the m
iddle of the night, m
uffed and hushed.
Eventually, they becam
e louder and clearer. It took a m
e fortnight to
realize that they w
ere indeed talking to m
e
..Talking to them
about
you till the w
ee hours of the m
orning m
ade m
e feel better, and I didnt
need any m
ore sleeping pills.
Malaysian writer Paul GnanaSelvam began writing in 2006; his letters to
editors and personal refections have appeared in the Starmag section of
Malaysian English language daily The Star. To date, he has published short
stories and poems in e-magazines Dusun and Anaksastra. His works
can also be found in the anthologies Write Out Loud, Urban Odysseys,
Body 2 Body and the biannual literary journal ASIATIC and the Lakeview
Journal of Arts and Literature. He has read his works at events such
as Seksualiti Merdeka, Readings, Northern Writers and Colors of
Cambodia. Lathas Christmas and Other Stories is his frst book.
30
MALAYA
BOOKED
A fuddle of fction written about the
mystical Orient that was Malaya
In fction, the Malayan archipelago
was ridden with dark, almost
impenetrable, jungles. The sweat
of intrepid travellers, or sex
starved barmy planters, broke
out in rivulets which stopped
only when cascading off leeches,
clinging like silent vampires to
unprotected white western legs.
Malaya was a deeply foreboding
place where young men travelled
never to return. It was full of
cut throat pirates (according to
G.A Henty, 1905), and luscious
lovelies who would seduce and
then discard lonely men (A.S.
Fleischman, 1954). For explorers,
Malaya was a place to either
conquer and grow tea and rubber,
or a place in which lived a variety
of races, some of whom abided by
a western work ethic and many
who didnt - they were to be
termed lazy and native.
There were rich and patronising
stories of Pigou, a Malay boy by
William Gardiner (1833), stories of
being trapped and held captive by
war-like Malays (G.Manville Fenn,
1907) and Malayan fables featuring
talking birds and mouse-deer
(Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora
Archibald Smith, 1911), and there
were wily tricksters going under
the name of Kling (W.Carlton
Dawe, 1895).
For some, Malaya was a place of G
& T or Singapore slings, or there
again a bottle of Tiger Beer. It
was lusty but forgotten. It was a
dank prison where linen wearing
planters eyed each others wives
and conscripted soldiers, when
not abed with local prostitutes,
were sent to fght un-winable
wars against local inhabitants, to
preserve an empire which was
quite obviously disintegrating.
Malaya was a place where jungles
31
32
E
M
E
R
G
E
N
C
Y
33
E
M
E
R
G
E
N
C
Y
34
from
classic
to
pulp
its what the world
thought
it knew about
MALAYA
35
its what the world
thought
it knew about
MALAYA
were seldom neutral. It was a
place for camping and tramping
(Ambrose B.Rathborne, 1898). It
had pagan tribes (Charles Hose,
1912), and wild tribes (Pierre
Etienne Lazare Favre, 1865). For
some it was an idyll ) Isabella L.Bird,
1884) but for many a schoolboy it
was simply a place where fathers
were lost due to some fracas
called, laughingly, an Emergency.
Malaya was a place of tin and of
rubber, and whose fortunes rose
and fell with trading. But when
Malaysians began writing about
their dilemmas, factories and rain,
they were to tell a very different
story to those told over 100+
years by visiting white people......
36
69 Fine Art Gallery Kuala Lumpur
Lim Kim Hai
Art Article Dusun
On White Cloth
OPTICAL OPTIMISM
37
At 63 years old, Lim Kim Hai
is a very prominent Malaysian
painter who has gained
international recognition.
Highlights of his achievements
include: Golden award from
Salon des Artistes Franais
(Paris, 1982), Silver Award
from Salon International du
Val dOr (1984, France),
Award of Prix Henri Lehamann
(peinture) from Institut de
France acadmie des
Beaux- Arts (Paris, 1986), and
Golden and Public awards
from 52nd Salon des Beaux
Arts, Enghien les Bains (1987)
and numerous important
solo and retrospective shows
throughout the world (from
France to Russia, China,
Vietnam, Taiwan, Thailand,
Singapore and his native
Malaysia).
Born in 1950 in Selangor,
Lim began his training at the
Nanyang Academy of Fine
Arts in Singapore. In 1975,
he left South East Asia for
Paris to study modern and
contemporary painting at
lEcole Suprieure des Beaux
Arts. Lim belongs to a group of
overseas Chinese painters who
merged Chinese and European
philosophy of art and aesthetics by
inventing his own language. Having
established himself quite well in
France, he found resonance in the
creative journeys of Renaissance
artist Augustin Henckel, Post-
Impressionist Cezanne, Abstract
Expressionist De Kooning and
Realist Impressionist Manet
through his long visits to the
Louvre and other local museums.
Lim found his own artistic
language in representing apples.
Feeling quite lonely in Paris, on a
subconscious level, apples became
his friends. They represent human
beings, as varied and different with
various sizes, shapes, colours and
personalities as people can have.
His realist yet very fantastic style
of painting leads us to a form of
artistic expression that transcends
East and West. This is not Asian
painting. This allows us to perceive
feelings and have a pure and
direct sensation about Lims work.
(From Press Release)
OPTICAL OPTIMISM
Curated by Betty Bui (France)
Exhibition: 23 November 21
December, 2013
Venue : 22 Jalan Bruas, Damansara
Heights, Kuala Lumpur Opening
hours: by appointment only
Contact no: 019 301 2569 Email:
info@69fneart.com
Images from the opening night
38
Harmony & Peace
39
40
As we jovially walked down that antediluvian equatorial brick staircase,
moss and tree ferns grew silently in the romantically dim gardens of 69
Fine Art Gallery. Anticipating the exhibition, I recalled the hazy, golden,
apple orchards of my youth. At age 10, I had run free through hundreds
of acres of apple trees whose names, except a few, have returned to
the teacher.
I slowly grew amidst Coxs Orange Pippin, Discovery, DArcy Spice
and so many more varieties of Eves fruit. Apples framed my pubescent
years. Rotting, cider bound fruits scented my growth, just as they had
scented the insides of Tolkiens Hobbit barrels. Apple blossom graced
my summers. I was too young for Rosie and cider. I was just some
Arthur Ransome character wannabe, all apple bound and confned by
creeping Englishness.
In my latter years apples became designed by The Fool (Dutch artists
Simon (Seemon) Posthuma and Marijke Koger), for The Beatles, and by
Rog Janoff - as a logo for that infamous computer company.
Back in the tropical warmth of Malaysia, and exiting those exquisitely
rambling nightly gardens, inside 69 Fine Art Gallery we were wel-
comed by bright lights and cool air conditioning. Having been washed
by gallery currents, I nearly passed out (Tomber dans les pommes) as
we were welcomed by a triumvirate of charming French expatriates.
Firstly, a most seductively inviting Frenchman who could put Charles
In Motion
41
Aznavour to shame, smiled as wide as any Cheshire cat, and was ac-
companied by two even more enchanting and alluring French women
- my mind swept to Catherine Deneuve and Jeanne Moreau, me being
of that age. The evening had begun very well.
We were there, at the opening of an exhibition by Chinese Malaysian
artist Lim Kim Hai, aka the Apple Man for reasons which shall become
obvious. I had been introduced to his work some time previously, in
some small selling gallery in the wilds of Kuala Lumpur. I had been
curious as to why a Malaysia artist had taken apples as his subject. The
answer was in this exhibition.
Lim Kim Hai initially had studied in Singapores Nanyang Academy of
Fine Arts, before heading off to Frances ecole Nationale Superieure
Des Beaux Arts, in Paris. There was a moment of eureka as I re-
alised that France, an apple producing country, has nurtured art-
ists with a great love of painting apples (pommes). Two exceptional
French artists - Chardin and Cezanne had both delighted in still life
paintings of apples. You might recall Dish of Apples by Paul Czanne
(Aix-en-Provence)187677, Still Life with Jar, Cup, and Apples (Aix-
en-Provence) 1877 or Still Life with Apples and a Pot of Primroses
(Aix-en-Provence)189192. Likewise Chardins series of Apples (and
Oranges), combining modernity and sumptuous beauty in one of the
most important still lifes produced by the artist in the late 1890's. Even
neighbouring Belgian Surrealist painter Ren Magritte, in Son of Man continued on page 33
Power of Unity
42
Harmony n Peace
43
44
Feast to the Eyes
Three Apples
No War
45
(1964), had a shot at painting that
pomaceous fruit.
As we sauntered the gallery, walls
of apples tumbling, falling, rising,
sitting as subjects made me think
of Bilbo, The Hobbit and Lake-
Town, though not necessarily in
such a negative sense as Fili (from
the book, not the flm).
Though Malaysia had never been
known for growing apples, it
being too moist and far too hot,
the Sarawakians in Bakelalan
have laboured long and hard to,
at last, bring Eves fruit to Malay-
sia. So maybe it is timely that a
French art gallery founder (Pa-
trice Vallette), in Kuala Lumpur,
should also present apples to the
equatorial public. Perhaps, then,
it is timely to bring a Malaysian
artist, who has revelled in paint-
ing apples as his subject during
his lengthy sojourn in France, to
a Malaysian audience becoming
increasingly familiar with the fruit.
Joyful Living
46
Golden Joy
47
48
Zhe Xuan touched my arm,
fascinated with my hairiness. He
stoked my arm as he would a kitten.
I was puzzled. Seventeen-year-old
Zhe Xuan normally barges past
me, lost in his autistic world, still
unable to speak, rushing to grab
colours and canvas for painting.
Today, he stopped, grinned his hard
won grin and rubbed his hand over
my hair.
I have known Zhe Xuan for two
years, ever since I frst visited the
centre. It has taken two years for
him to brave physical contact with
me. I was thrilled. His mother
normally requests Zhe Xuan to say
hello Martin. Sometimes he does,
sometimes he is too eager to get
started. Mostly all I get is a quickly
muttered something, his mothers
stern face and her apology. Im
grateful for anything really.
Family Pua have turned negativity
into positivity. Pua Zhe Xuan was
born with autism. His early life
Art Article Dusun
49
Trees in the Jungle
50
intently on his work singing
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, over
and over as he drew.
The opening of his latest exhibition
coincides with the initiation of his
own gallery in Cheras, just outside
Kuala Lumpur. It has been a long
time coming, but Zhe Xuan has
fnally arrived on the Malaysian art
scene with his simply scintillating
imagery.
Born in Klang, Zhe Xuan is a local
boy making good. He has not let
autism hamper his zest for life, or
his passion for painting.
Zhe Xuan refects our world back
to us, and by so doing enriches our
knowledge and our hearts.
Martin Bradley
was a struggle to communicate.
Zhe Xuan's parents soon noticed
their son's aptitude for art, and
supported him in his endeavours
to communicate visually that which
he was unable to communicate in
speech.
Today it rained a lazy equatorial
rain. Not enough to water the
thirsty lemongrass outside the
centre, but enough to take some
of the heat from the air, and crowd
the outside of the tuition centre
with shoes and umbrellas. The end
of the week is always like that -
droves of parents depositing their
children, multiple shoes on shoe
racks - hampering stray dogs intent
on playing with them, and today - a
Jenga of umbrellas.
Zhe Xuan has worked hard
these last few months. He paints
on much larger canvases now,
painting and drawing the Kuala
Lumpur landscape. His is a unique
perspective, fat, bringing to mind
pioneer modernist painters. His
artworks exude magic, symbolism
and spiritual energies in abundance.
His acrylic paintings refect the
intensity of Paul Klee and the naive
playfulness of a newly discovered
Henri Rousseau. Zhe Xuan
simplifes what he sees, there is
little need for ornament, he grasps
the essences and presents them
to his audience, one which is ever
growing.
Zhe Xuan has a launch of his new
artworks at the end of November.
He is still painting in his unique
style, assisted by Teacher Honey
and his mother May. Without their
guidance Zhe Xuan would linger
over one image, drawing and re-
drawing that image for the entire
two hours of his art class. Today he
continued with Malaysias Petronas
towers. A light blue and washed
green formed his background,
over which he drew the outlines
in black magic marker. He focussed
The Market
51
Plants with KLCC
52
The Landscape
53
54
Twin Towers
55
The Beauty of KLCC
56
Yeo Eng Hin
Art Article Dusun
56
Bayon at Sunset
57 57
Buddha Pagodas of Bayon Temple
58 58
There is an intriguing interiority and an exciting exteriority to the
recent paintings of Yeo Eng Hin. Intimations of French Impressionism
and nuances of an emotional, and spiritual, Expressionism grace the
acrylic and oil (mixed media) canvases of this gentle man painter. Yeo
captures the essences of his subject well, and transports us, his viewers,
into a land both venerable and seemingly superbly supernal - that of
Cambodias ancient Angkor.
The imposingly graceful Angkor, magnifcent city of hewn stone temples,
was created by skilled craftsmen during Khmer (Cambodian) Empires
from the 9th to the 15th centuries. It was revisited by French naturalist
and explorer M.Henri Mouhot in 1860, and noted in his travel journals.
Angkor is an imposing city comprising of Hindu and Buddhist temples
which cover 400 glorious square kilometres, outside Siem Reap, Cambodia.
Blessing a Good Day
59 59
The intrepid painter Yeo has sojourned in Angkor numerous times
to internalise, and reveal, the gentleness, tranquillity and deep
seated spirituality of that wondrous city. Angkor has the sagacious
reputation of turning writers into poets, adventurers into acolytes
and painters into masters, and such is the case with Yeo Eng Hin.
So seldom does the rendering of a subject fuse so perfectly with
the psyche of the subject itself. It is as if Malaysian painter Yeo has
absorbed some of the peaceful tranquility from that great Khmer
city and rendered it, and his refections upon it, for we exhibition
visitors to marvel at. And marvel we do.
Nanyang (Singapore) and Paris trained Yeo has evidently come of
age in his astute Angkor paintings. Skilfully blending an ethereal,
impressionistic, haziness, acute architectural perspective with
splash painted Expressionistic texturing, Yeo brings all the grace
and otherworldliness of ancient city of Angkor alive. Drifting
cantaloupe coloured monks stray like benign spectres amidst
aged and ancient stone. We onlookers become uncertain if these
monks are unsubstantial echoes, ghosts in time, or present day
samaner (novice monks), wandering in silent magnifcence. As we
gaze, we can feel the immense solidity of weathered stone cubes,
hand carved, crafted to form pillars, now beset with all colours
of aged lichen. Yeos painterly skill reveals the grace of balletic
Apsaras and scalloped Buddhas; their hands pressing palm against
palm in the sampeah - a welcoming salute to we who view.
These Angkor paintings are no mere capriccio, but a Turneresque
dream of Eastern enlightenment and sublime enchantment.
We witness and wonder, as Yeo skillfully blends cool and warm
colouration to enhance our experience of the grandeur, and
humbleness of his noble subject. As we stand before these paintings
we become gently lulled, as if in a smoky miasma, drawn into a
peaceful serenity greatly uncommon in the hustle and bustle of
Malaysian modernity.
Impressions of Bayon Temple
60
With an artists vision more acute than digital photography, Yeo Eng
Hin, as visionary painter, presents us with both impressions and with
expressionistic feelings. Feelings are invoked by the skill of the adept
painter, his masterful layering, sleek stroke-making, poignant paint
splashing. Light and dark are woven,manipulated, to give birth to
the illusion of depth and the depth to illusion. Bright, dark or sun-
rising skies bring warmth or cool to our perceptions of the painters
Angkor. Impressions are rendered in feeting glimpses of mid-ground
and background, seemingly inconsequential trees, and brisk bushes.
Our vision becomes constantly guided. Yeo is our painter tour guide.
He leads us into his perspectives, as we become unhurriedly herded
by his skilful brushwork. In the land Yeo has created, ethereal monks
and mysterious gateways arouse our curiosity. They become revealed
by Yeos thaumaturgic, painterly, enchantment and suddenly appear to
delight and astound.
If there were to be criticism of these works, it would of scale. I should
delight in much larger works, works to truly get lost in - like some aging
Alice in dream that is a Cambodian wonderland.
60
East Gate of Bayon Temple
61 61
Untitled
62 62
Ruins of Bayon Temple
63 63
Encountering Buddha
64 64
Untitled
65 65
The Ruins of Angkor
66 66
Sunshine at Ancient Angkor Wat
67 67
68
In the
Buddha
garden
I
sit silent
and
smell
the Jasmine
watch
the
orange clad
glide
in
their
serenity
hear
the
sweetness
of
birds
as
they
wing
then
rest
I
centre
myself
knowing
that
peace
comes
from
within
the
morning
sun's
69
rays
bless
me
as
I
bless
all
living
beings
they
come
to
rest
in
me
as
one
in
the
Buddha
garden
Martin
Bradley
70
C
ambodia
71 71
Take a minute for yourself
71
Roosters waiting to fght
72
We wait on fight AK1480, there is
the distinctly British sound of Artic
Monkeys being played as we wait. A
conglomeration of red bedecked
fight attendants futter carefully
mascaraed caterpillars, and pout
abnormally red lips while gossiping
and tinkering with plastic trays.
The red gantry is eventually
withdrawn and the girls announce
departure. My wife cuddles the
small pillow that we had bought
from home, and sleeps. The
uneventful fight takes its one
hundred and twenty minutes
(approx) and begins its descent
towards water logged, green,
Cambodian felds.
Siem Reap has waited for my
return. It is a fraction cooler. It is
December, but nevertheless still
damn hot, and damp. It is the rainy
season, with previously parched
land now drenched. Like most
times of year for Siem Reap, it is still
also tourist season, with (mostly)
Western travellers fooding into
this, the fastest growing city in
Cambodia.
We take succour at an eatery
backed by the main (old) Siem
Reap market. A bubbling group
of U.S twentysomethings display
their contempt for restaurant staff
by shouting across the not large
dining room Here, beer then
laughing amongst themselves as
if their inability to communicate
with hard-working local life is
humorous. It seems that ignorance
travels as much as insight these
days.
Outside of Serges Champey
Restaurant the emaciated,
tattooed, fre eater performs to an
all white ensemble of onlookers,
brushing his lithe body with fre and
threatening to famb his nether
region too. On the conclusion
of his performance he produces
a black bag and approaches his
audience. As one they fnd interest
in each other, the local shops, the
sky or just about anything other
than the man they had been
watching so avidly, save one tourist
with a white goatee beard. He
withdraws his wallet and proffers
a note. The fre eater pockets that
note and collects his paraphernalia
together, to begin again elsewhere.
A comfortable coach draws up
and whisks the tourists away.
Fried minned pork does indeed
turn out to be fried minced pork,
luckily. The misspelling brings
memories of Peter Sellers, Spike
Milligan, Harry Secombe and
Michael Bentine - The Goons and
the eccentricities of the English. It
A small Khmer boy appears with a
large light blue bag. He poses against
one of the restaurants posts for a
while, then continues his quest for
plastic bottles, which he scrunches
and crunches into his bag. Shortly
after, a small Khmer girl bounces
up to us - one dollar ten, ten for
one dollar. She sticks out a thin
hand and offers rattan bangles. Like
a novice tourist, I buy those brown
and turquoise objects, much to my
wifes surprise, and place them on
her waiting arm. The girl, seemingly
satisfed, wanders off into the rain
bespeckled Siem Reap street.
The pensioned of all nationalities
seem to impose themselves on
gentle Khmer residents. The
retirees rub reddening shoulders
with browned backpackers who
Cambodia
Martin Bradley journeys to Cambodia with the charity Colors of Cambodia, and shares his
thoughts and feels as he and his wife Pei Yeou go about the business of teaching and bringing
art and education to children in Siem Reap, Cambodia
p
o
s
t
c
a
r
d
s

f
r
o
m
Travel Dusun
73
click merrily away at large red vans
bearing the legend Coca Cola -
as if it were something unthinkable
that the American brand should
have reached the depths of South
East Asia. A blonde patron, having
fnished her burger, fries and coke,
beckons the waitress in the age
old fashion of pretending to write
a cheque in the air. She puts away
her digital tablet ready to rejoin the
alien throng on the streets where,
no doubt, she will be hassled by
the nearest tuk tuk drivers to the
extent that she would eventually
succumb to their proffering or,
frazzled, walk briskly away.
The much photographed Siem
Reap has all the appearance now,
of a pleasure weary mistress who
is a little heavier around her waist,
and perhaps a little sadder around
her mascaraed eyes too. Like a
true pro she has partied until she
dropped and then picked herself
up, and partied some more. But,
her hand woven cotton sampot
reveals its, and her, wear and tear,
and the lines around her eyes have
become deeper with each tourist
flled year. And still the tourists
come, ready to use this aging
maiden, laden with their weighty
wallets and hefty telescopic lenses,
expecting to be continuously
entertained.
Tiredness is still blowing through
the windmill vanes of ours minds.
Reluctantly we arise to catch
a breakfast that we really wish
we had not, at the hotel, before
heading off in a rickety tuk tuk to a
school we help sponsor, near Siem
Reap airport.
Siem Reap has waited for
my return. It is a fraction
cooler. It is December, but
nevertheless still damn hot,
and damp. It is the rainy
season, with previously
parched land now
drenched.
Colors of Cambodia Gallery in Siem Reap
74
Every so often a book appears that reveals and illuminates a
project that might otherwise remain largely unknown by the
outside world: Colors of Cambodia is such a book. This is
a highly personal and passionate account written by Martin
Bradley and illustrated by Pei Yeou Bradley of her encounter
with a remarkable art-based project in and around Siem Reap in
Cambodia, and how she was drawn into practical involvement
with the children for whom the project exists.

Richard Noyce, Artist, Wales 2012
follow artist Honey Khor
as she sets out to volunteer for the charity - Colors of Cambodia, for the frst time
75
cocthebook@gmail.com
h t t p s : / / w w w . f a c e b o o k . c o m /
groups/138402846288849/
http://colorsofcambodia.org/
on sale from
proceeds from all sales go to the education of children in Siem Reap, Cambodia
follow artist Honey Khor
as she sets out to volunteer for the charity - Colors of Cambodia, for the frst time
written and designed by Martin Bradley
76
Deux Jours
77
Breakfast at Tan Kang Angkor
hotel is a most unusual mixture
of impoverished British seaside
B&B, and an equally impoverished,
not to say forlorn, Chinese eatery,
where customers had long since
ceased visiting. The kindest thing I
could say about the hotel breakfast
was that it was just, barely, edible
if you were desperate enough to
consider doing so.
It is the usual Cambodian journey,
past roadside sellers of bottled
petrol, mushrooming hotels and
posters proclaiming this or that
political party to be the one choice
for the people of Cambodia. Thai
Zo school is down a dirt track
off the main road. It was built by
a Japanese company to educate
children in that very rural area.
The children are having a school
break when we visit, but the art
class children come as usual, and
a couple of dozen children mill
around helping to clean the school
grounds. While my wife diligently
helps Colors of Cambodia art
teacher Narong teach the children
the wonders of sand art, I take
photographs for our records and
wander at will around the very
functional shoebox-like school.
It is the rainy season. It rained when
we arrived. It rained the previous
lunchtime and evening. Rain had
accompanied our breakfast with
large drops splashing into the
dolphin tiled swimming pool. This
slightly delayed our start, but at the
school all we experience are grey
clouds and a distinct lack of sun. It
is just as well, as the tuk tuk ride
would not have been as pleasant
Thai Zo School, rural Siem reap
78
in rain. The overall temperature
is much cooler than my previous
visit, almost bearable.
I snap away at all that need to snap
away at, I sit with the two school
Headmasters (elementary and
secondary), a collection of teachers
and our guide/interpreter Saroeun.
Idly, as Sarouen translates, I watch
a small group of girls playing Lort
Koe Su. Lort Koe Su (Khmer) is a
jumping game where the jumper
has to kick a stretched string, or
elastic, held aloft by two children.
The string gets higher and higher
until it is eventually held at arms
length, and the jumpers leap to
touch it. The girls are of all sizes,
big and small, younger and older,
but it is one small girl, her rubber
slippers in hand and ponytail
lashing out as she jumped, who
eventually beats all the others.
The game winds down. Those
children disperse. Some wander
off to the classroom where my
wife has been volunteer teaching,
on and off, for over fve years now.
Other children continue to tidy the
grounds, unsupervised, in-between
bouts of play. Within minutes some
of the girls return. They press their
treasures - packets of sand art,
to their immature chests while
chatting furiously, and beam radiant
smiles at each other.
As I sit, the teachers draft
proposals for things the school
is in need of - a new foor for
classrooms, computers for when
electricity eventually reaches the
school and playground equipment
for the elementary school, which
has none. As I am digesting the
schools needs, I watch as a
cowherd saunters through the
school grounds, bringing three
white Asian cows with him. He is
on his way to collect the fourth,
which has been laying at the far
end of the school playing feld. I
remind myself of the differences in
school life in Cambodia, Malaysia
and in Britain - where few city
children had actually seen a cow,
let alone four within their schools
playing felds.
Thai Zo School Siem Reap
79
80
Trois Jours
81
Under the brightest of Cambodian
morning skies, our three Malaysian
Chinese princesses arrive. They are
a little bleary-eyed after their early
morning fight, but nevertheless
game to begin their new journey
into volunteering. My intrepid wife,
and her not so intrepid husband,
guide the three Chinese belles
through the scooter/tuk tuk laden
streets to our usual watering hole,
at the rear of the old market, in
Siem Reap. From there it is a short
hop and a step to the gallery Colors
of Cambodia, Mundull 1 Village,
Sway Dong Kum Commune.
The gallery has changed a little since
our last visit. The front has been
let to a company producing and
selling striking black lacquer work,
which augments the paintings by
the Colors of Cambodia students,
and teachers, nicely. There is a very
nice art/craft feel to the building
now, and many foreign visitors
stream in to see both crafts and
paintings. Of course the two
Cambodian beauties selling the
lacquer work only enhance the
inherent attractiveness of the
place.
We pick up Seney, a Cambodian
artist and art teacher for Colors of
Cambodia, and Sarouen, the gallery
manager and tourist guide, and
head for rural Siem Reap aboard
slim, fragile looking motorcycles.
Seney has the unenviable task of
transporting my largeness, but he
copes well, despite the mud sliding
and near collisions on the journey
to see the homes of the children
we sponsor.
Firstly we head to Thai Zo school
to pick up the Elementary School
Headmaster (Director), as our
guide, then off onto very narrow
dirt tracks entirely unsuitable for
any other form of transport save
motorcycles, cycles or pedestrians.
The houses of the sponsored
children are several kilometres
along the tracks, and too far for
us to walk. For a while we travel
adjacent to a muddily brown canal.
Smiling Khmer children, their
bodies immersed in water, gather
blue water hyacinth and lotus
seed pods. We travel on, over ruts,
around holes flled with recent
rains, past water buffalo drying
in the sun, past white cows, their
backbones prominent and past oh
so many acres of tall paddy.
My wife has signalled a stop. We
dismount. Me with a little diffculty,
but Seney is patient. It is a photo
op. We have come to rest at a
rice paddy feld, where a whole
Khmer family are busy harvesting
their crop. Despite their need to
quickly gather the rice before too
much rain falls and ruins it, they
stop their work and allow us to
take pictures. Husband and wife
both pose for photographs, the
children continue working. The
wife demonstrates cutting paddy
to my wife. She hands her a small
scythe, and advises her with body
language how not to cut her legs
off as well as the rice. There is no
major blood letting incident so we
continue, having thanked the family
profusely.
Despite a small detour - it is was
when Seney and I lose sight of the
others and continue in the wrong
direction, we eventually arrive at
the frst of the homes for visiting.
Family visit, rural Siem Reap
82
Rural village
83
It all appears very idyllic. There are
tall, waving green stalks of rice.
There is a mid-blue of the sky and a
wooden house on stilts in the mid-
ground. It is a December morning,
and cool. A photographers
masterpiece. It is all practically
meditative. The rural silence
speaks volumes of simplicity and
contentment, but we are cautious
not to let that glimpse of paradise
fool us into believing in Noble
Savages, but rather of honestly
diligent Cambodian peasantry.
Some of the houses we visit have
electricity, many do not. All are
simple wooden structures, some
on stilts, some on the ground with
earth as a fooring. Most have but
one simple room for the family to
do everything save cook. Cooking
is performed in an outhouse - a
lean too with a corrugated iron
roof. Many are families of twelve,
or ten, eking out a living in the
best way they can. They lay traps
and catch fsh, eels, crabs from
the fooded felds, grow their own
rice, vegetables, spices and herbs.
For the one house with electricity,
it is provided by someone else's
generator, for which they have to
pay. Colors of Cambodia assists
those children of poorer families
with their education, by giving
them the barest of essentials for
them to attend school, but cannot
help them with the six kilometres
they have to walk to school.
Subsistence farmer, rural Siem Reap
84
Quatre Jours
85
It is Monday. The Cambodian sun
shines. Skies are once again blue.
A troupe of tuk tuks potter out
of Siem Reap city heading for
the countryside. Again the roads
are dusty. One of my Chinese
companions manipulates her
green checkered Cambodian
scarf, wedges it behind her large
sunglasses, and masks the dusty,
warming air. The further out we
go from Siem Reap, the worse
the roads are. The stretch of road
immediately before the school
we are visiting today, is laden
with craters, its like we are riding
moon-buggies, but tuk tuks have
little or no suspension. We bounce
with every bump, slide with every
swerve, and truly experience
the questionable delights of
Cambodian road transport.
Khnar Char School is an old friend
to Colors of Cambodia, My wife,
previously known as Honey Khor
(long story) has been teaching
there as a volunteer, for years, but
it is a new one for the sponsoring
of childrens education. Recently
taken on, Colors of Cambodia now
supports 77 children at the school.
Today we come to see those
children and give them blue goodie
bags full of school equipment and
clothing. Firstly, a classroom is
organised. The children line up in
two rows - girls and boys. They
wait patiently in line, some wearing
shoes, some not. White blouses
and white shirts are no longer
white, but grey or browning with
stain from the reddened earth.
Blue shorts are loose, threatening
to drop with each step, or simply
by waiting in line. One girl has a
prosthetic leg. The children all have
identically coloured hair and eyes.
The children are led into the
classroom, seated. Colors of
Cambodia volunteers help the
children place their names on thank
you cards that have their photo,
ready to send to the sponsors.
Seney, our art teacher, writes
what is required of the children
on the blackboard, encourages the
children to colour in small pictures
and to add stickers, to make it all
more personal. Eager children
dive into their given bags, pull out
small bags of school equipment -
rubbers, rulers, coloured pencils
etc. They investigate the clothing,
comparing them, looking at others,
seeing what they have. Everyone
is busy with their bags, too busy
to notice the growing crowd of
children peering through the iron
bars at the school windows. Those
children are not sponsored and
therefore ineligible for such bags,
and attention.
Rural fsh catching
Khnar Char School children queue
86
nurture yourself with
dusun
asian arts and culture emagazine
86
87
remembering
whiteness
& other poems
by martin bradley
downloadable as a free pdf
from
http://correspondences-martin.blogspot.com/2012/04/open-publication-free-publishing-more.html
87
88
Outside it is break-time for some
children. A group of boys play kick-
fghting in the dusty, leaf strewn
playground, emulating flms, TV.
They smile, happily, under the
imposing Cambodian sun. Mostly
the children play barefoot. Rubber
slippers are discarded all over the
patch of grassless ground, to be
collected before class for those
that have them.
Towards the rear of the school
yard are vegetable beds, neatly
placed into rows with shoots just
visible as plants. Elsewhere around
the school are raised beds with
some small bushes and fowering
shrubs. It is all very basic, simple,
easy to maintain. A small tuck shop
is adjacent to the last classroom.
Like those in other Cambodian
schools we have visited, it is staffed
by a woman with small children. It
sells some Western items - crisps
of many varieties, and locally
made jellies and other morsels or
savoury snacks for momentarily
hungry children.
I sit and watch young girls playing.
They sport small gold looking
earrings, Hello Kitty embroidered
blouses, and one - a small craft
made bag. She is a little smaller
than the others. Her eyes are
bright, intelligent. As I sit on a
concrete seat, in the playground,
she approaches me. Other
children gather too, and watch
as I write. She starts to read my
writing, aloud, in English, stopping
for me to prompt her when she
had diffculty, not with English, but
with my handwriting. The others
copy her. Soon I have a large group
of small children gathered around
me, reading what I write. I write
more carefully to help them read.
That young girl presents me with
a thin green book. In good English
she asks me to read to them all. I
am a little overcome with emotion.
The moment is too beautiful for
my clumsy words.
The book - Reading Books
2011 - The World of Stories -
Phnom Doh Kromon is in dual
language - Khmer and English.
The children listen intently as
I read to them, correcting me
when I mispronounce the Khmer
names, repeating after me as I
read the English. When I stop, the
girl thanks me most politely in
English then Khmer. Another child
places a small bunch of picked
yellow fowers on my thigh, as I sit.
Another, a boy, not to be outdone,
goes off and comes back with a
mixture of small yellow and pink
fowers, which he has inserted
into a straw to make a posy. He
presents it to me and I almost cry,
it is so touching. The school bell
rings and the children have to go
to class. I walk back to the waiting
tuk tuks wearing the small posy
in my hatband. My friends and my
wife have many questions. I tell
them this story.
89
Sponsored children say Thank You
90
Cinq Jours
91
It is a quiet day. I am interrupted
only by the Tan Kang hotel maids
stirring the insidious Cambodian
dust around the room, and
rearranging the inadequate
bedding to make it look smarter,
not cleaner. I spend the morning
writing, such as I can, with a
constantly interrupted internet.
In time, my hard working, racing,
wife returns from guiding her
Malaysian Chinese chicks (20+
now) hither and thither across the
outskirts of Siem Reap. I board the
bus they travelled in, which reminds
me not of American and Malaysian
school buses, but of the colour of
the Beatles Yellow Submarine. We
head off to Wat Damnak temple
to witness the Buddhist monks
having dana (lunch). Daily, early in
the morning, the monks exit the
temple with covered bowls and
satchels. People give either food
- in the bowls, or money - in the
satchels, to sustain the monks for
that day.
We briefy meet Director the
Venerable Somnieng Hoeurn, who
guides us to where the orange
draped monks are sitting, cross
legged, waiting patiently for their
food. A chanting in Pali begins, frst
from the monks, then from the
visitors offering dana (which might
be translated as giving, offering or
alms). The food is distributed. The
Venerable hastens off to get his.
We wander from the temple to the
Life and Hope Association project
set up by the Venerable Somnieng
Hoeurn and established in 2005. It
started as a singular project - Food
for Education, and eventually grew
into six.
A fellow Englishman - Clive Butler
(Organisational Development
Director), and his wife, have taken
over the reigns of the sewing
project and oversee the language
learning side too. The workers are
having lunch, so we are able to see
only resting sewing machines, limp
lines of cotton thread and material
awaiting loving hands. Those old
machines instantly remind me of
my mother, and the days she would
spend sewing curtains, shirts or
her skirts on her Singer treadle
sewing machine, at home, in Essex.
I sigh. Times change and Clive, his
wife and I are a along way away
from the London were we born in,
both in time and in so many miles.
We agree to consider the Life and
Hope Association making some of
the equipment we normally buy
from outside, for the children in
the schools Colors of Cambodia
helps sponsor. There are cost
considerations, but also ethical
ones. By working with the Life
and Hope Association we could
be helping more Cambodians fnd
work - something which in short
supply in Cambodia.
It is a pleasant, welcoming, trip to
the other side of the river. Sadly to
say not all visits to other NGOs
are as pleasant, nor as welcoming.
In the evening we escort the
Malaysian Chinese visitors to a
small local orphanage. Siem Reap
is full of orphans, and orphanages,
some larger, some smaller, but all
concerned with childrens welfare.
I am looking forward to this walk.
I have not been to this particular
orphanage before, my wife has. We
troop in the dark, balmy, evening
by the side of the Siem Reap river,
along the dusty road, past the usual
sellers of bottled petrol, and past
empty, resting,tuk tuks.
We walk a little further than any
of us thought, guided by the light
from my small torch, attached to
my house key ring. Eventually we
reach the poorly lit orphanage.
We slide back the gate grill. It
takes a little effort because of the
build up of dust and debris, and
enter the small compound. We
are immediately confronted by
two young, white, women who,
evidently, are far from pleased to
see us. True we have come outside
of the normal visiting hours, but
we had to wait for our visitors
to use bathroom facilities before
marching off with bags laden with
goodies for these orphan children.
We initially fear that we were
being turned away after our walk.
Perhaps we would have been, save
for the smiles and the evident
caring of a young male Khmer, who
doubles as both a security guard
at night and accountant during the
day. Unlike the foreign volunteers,
the Khmer (Cambodian) is most
welcoming. He allows us to sign
the visitors register and motions
us to visit with the children. One
Monks at Dana
92
foreign volunteer seems unhappy
with this decision. He stands,
folding his arms before him, closed
off, unwilling to engage. As we
approach the small area where
the children are sitting with other
foreign volunteers, we notice a
lack of interaction between the
volunteers and we visitors. The
volunteers appear to be holding
the children back from coming to
greet us. There is no eye contact.
Nevertheless, and because we
are there for the children - not
the volunteers, we distribute the
toys, gifts and sweets to whoever
manages to reach us, and give
the rest to the Khmer guard/
accountant to distribute later. We
stay a short while. Those children
who dare interact with us, do so,
laughing and playing. As we leave, we
ask the one approachable member
of staff what the orphanage really
needs - he says rice. They always
need rice, and perhaps pork, but
rice frst and foremost. We leave,
promising to deliver a bag of rice
for the next day.
Rice for orphans
93 93
94 94
Pub Street, Siem Reap
95
Six Jours
96
Snail shells shine in the unshaded
nightly light. The remains of a
deep fried frog lay greedily on the
small red plastic plate, and the egg
embryo I just ate is working its
eggy way down my gullet, to be
digested.
It is our frst day in Phom Penh.
We survived the mammoth seven
hour bus journey from Siem Reap,
the narrow cratered roads and the
rigours of that vehicle's narrow
chamber of torture, laughingly
referred to as a toilet.
To save us all from terminal
boredom, or is that sleep, the bus
crew bombards us with a selection
of flms, shown on a single screen,
at the front of the bus. Due to the
rockiness of the roads, and the
quality of the videos/video player,
all we eventually get is a succession
of half viewed Jackie Chan flms.
We arrive, and immediately want
to sort out accommodation.
We need somewhere to lay our
weary bones, stretch a little and
generally get the kinks of travel
out of our racked bodies. We ask
art teacher Seney, who is along for
the trip, to help us, and end up in a
small hostelry called the Sinh Foo
Guesthouse.
Sinh Foo Guesthouse is right by
the river. Our room has a stunning
view of that river and strolling
tourists but, sadly, no tea and
coffee making facilities. The room
is two fights up, threatening to give
me daily exercise, and make me
healthier. I shiver at that possibility.
All I seek is a simple burger. My
tongue needs a break from fsh
Amok. The allure of escargot
(snails) and the other Cambodian
night food, drag me to sit down
at the roadside, under a partially
open green tarpaulin. The blue
hatted proprietor seemingly enjoys
practicing his English on us. He is
extremely helpful and jovial, this
is why I sit with empty snail shells,
remains of some bird embryo and
deep fried frog on various small
dishes before me.
My wife, as usual, gathers attention
by watercolour sketching.
Neighbours, staff and passersby
all stop to watch her weave her
painterly magic. Soon a crowd has
gathered to watch, chattering away
in Khmer. One small girl, with silver
coloured bangles, is fascinated
with the rhythm of brush to water,
to paint to paper. Eventually, the
crowd began to disperse. Staff go
back to work, others leak away into
the night, including the two blonde
English girls wanting a supper of
snails.
We are here to attend meetings,
Artist Honey Khor
hard at work
97
to discuss sponsorship for our
charity Colors of Cambodia. A
friend has very kindly given us
contacts for tomorrow.
In the very slight cool of the Phnom
Penh evening we walk back, then
across the busy road to perform
a romantic promenade by the
riverside. Five minutes breathing
in the river's stench and we high
tail it back to our hotel for a night
without tea or coffee.
In the morning, a rising sun paints
the immediate sky a pastel pink,
and washes the whole riverside
in Van Gogh blue. At breakfast we
are kindly reminded - one more
cup of coffee not free.
Martin Bradley
Me Kong river Phnom Penh
98
Sokuntevy Oeur
New works by Oeur Sokuntevy
4 December, 2013 12 January, 2014
Java Caf | Arts, Phnom Penh, Cambodia
Continuing her exploration of subconscious and dream imagery, Oeur
Sokuntevy exhibits a new series of paintings that playfully investigate
personal secrets. Shifting away from personal story-telling, social and
gender commentary move to the forefront of this series of twelve
paintings featuring scenes and portraits of fctionalized characters.
Through satirical gesturesthe shift of the eye, hand signals, a shushing
fngerwe know there is more going on below the surface.
Throughout the series, Oeur explores feminine iconography and repre-
sents them in exaggerated forms. A womens body becomes a defning
part of her identity, with breasts exposed and featured. While textiles,
like traditional sarongs, are depicted with intricate details and spread
across the canvases in liquid folds. A fower, whether a tattoo, or part
of a childs shirt, is enlarged and amplifed to the point of becoming a
character in scene. The ever-present fower takes on a different mani-
festation in every piece, and accordingly determines the title.
The characters that appear on the canvases are often hidden or dis-
torted, remaining anonymous while their secrets are alluded to through
coded imagery. The characters are drawn from pop media, personal
histories and anecdotal research and imitate the social strata of a rap-
idly evolving contemporary culture. In one painting a family is seen on
a picnic in the countryside dressed in Western clothing with the father
drinking whiskey and smoking a cigarall symbols of a rich lifestyle.
While in another, two fgures stand in a doorway of a wooden, country
home, dressed in traditional textiles with parts of their body forming
the clothing and their feet melting to a magnolia blossom below.
Despite the many social and economic backgrounds represented, they
are unifed by a common thread of desire. Although it is secreted away,
desire asserts itself as part of the human conditiona universal experi-
enceplaying a role in each individual narrative.
Oeur Sokuntevy (b. 1983, Battambang, Cambodia) studied painting at
the Phare Ponleu Selpak in Battambang and moved to Phnom Penh in
2007. Sokuntevy has had much interest in her work as one of the few
female contemporary artists currently showing from Cambodia. Solo
exhibitions include Love, Death and Dreams at Utterly Art (Singapore),
Love to Death at the French Cultural Centre, I Curl in Memorys Belly
at Java Gallery in 2010, and Star Signs at Hotel De La Paix in 2008
98
99
..........Secrets
Artists Honey Khor and Seney Ney admiring the exhibition in Java Arts
99
100
Bird Nest
101
(Cambodia). Group exhibitions
include Me Love you Long Time at
Boston Centre for the Arts, 2013
(USA), Sightlines at Noel-Baza Fine
Art Gallery, 2010 (USA), Incheon
Women Artists Biennale (Korea)
in 2009, The Art of Survival, Meta
House Gallery, 2008 (Cambodia)
and more. Sokuntevys work is
included in art collections of the
Singapore Embassy (Cambodia)
and the Singapore Art Museum. Her
work has appeared in magazines
and newspapers including Art Asia
Pacifc, Asialife, Cambodge Soir,
Phnom Penh Post, The Cambodia
Daily and the Southeast Asia Globe
Magazine.
Parakeets
102
Picnic in the Grass
103
104
Purple Hibiscus
105
Amaryllis
106
India...
106
107 107
Sivangoan-Nagpur
108
M
a
h
e
s
h
M
a
n
k
a
r
108
109 109
Morning News
110 110
Ghat-4
111 111
Ghat-5
112 112
Ghat
Nagpur 1
113 113
Nagpur
Ghat-3
114 114
Rickshaw
115 115
Watercolour Landscape
116 116
Balconies
117 117
Street Scene
Landscape
118 118
Umbrella on Bicycle
Mahesh M. Mankar is a young Indian painter who lives in Maharashtra, India.
He graduated with a Government Diploma in Art [Drawing & Painting (from
Shree. D. C. Mahavidyalaya, Nawargaon Dist. Chandrapur (2003-07] and has
since has a number of exhibitions of his work throughout India.

119 119
Nagpur Street
Railway Junction
120
Philippines
121
Chestnuts roasting with coffee beans
122
For six plus years a 'proper' Christmas was denied me. I wallowed in
the lushly green and buffalo ridden heartlands of Malaysia. It was a very
Muslim place, with nary a mincepie to espy or sausage roll to feed this
yule starved Englishman. It was nearly enough to send this Christmas
lover all Christmas crackers.
Last year, in a small town in outer regions of Penang, I set about recreating
my ideal Christmas. I was with my wife, oven roasted chickens and non-
roasting Chinese relatives on a cookery morning in a kitchen which
was as hot as any Turkish wrestlers jock strap. I got pretty close to
rediscovering Christmas there, what with sherry trife, Bisto/Oxo gravy
and Paxo stuffng to accompany my home cooked Christmas fare. But
it was one hell of a lot of cooking for me and I lay exhausted, unable to
entertain.
This year, a whole twelve exciting months later, Christmas was being
spent in a Christian country - the Philippines. It was there that I had
severely hoped to be swept off my feet by a welcome wave of yuletide
bonhomie, welcoming wassailing and good ole Christmas cheer. But I
wasn't.
Despite being a seriously Catholic country, the Philippines, at least
that presented via Makati and Manila, felt less like Christmas than my
new home - Muslim Malaysia. In the marvellously materialistic Makati
Greenbelt mall, the Christmas trimmings were there, but the heart
appeared to be absent.
Desperately in need of some familiar festive fare, I had dragged my poor
Buddhist wife into Marks and Spencer, now rebranded as a cool M&S.
We hastened to the food section for me to buy luxury mince pies,
Christmas pudding, sausage rolls and perhaps mulled wine. I like to do
things properly at Christmas. No half measures.
Martin Bradley
Travel Dusun
In search of
Christmas
lost.
123
Oh calamity, as an aged American comedian was wont to say. Nary a
one was there. No mince pies, no sausage rolls and no fggy pudding
either. We looked and looked, but no yule log was evident. The only
vague remnant of an English Christmas, in M&S, was a tin of Scottish
shortbread. But what could I have expected in a country of cock-crow
church mass (Misa de Gallo - 4am), roasted pork (lechon) instead of
turkey and Christmas cheese. Yes, you read correctly - Christmas cheese,
eg Edam, all nicely round and waxed red.
Our visit had, thus far, teetered between the sublime and the ridiculous.
The ridiculous being the service and breakfasts of the BSA Tower hotel
in Makati, where cold egg, cold sausage, toast with no butter and stewed
coffee arrives some time, up to 45 minutes, late. The sublime was the
caterpillar clad, rosette lipstick wearing Filipina models who mock firted
with me for photos during my book launch.
Perhaps the lack of Filipino Christmas enthusiasm came as an aftershock,
a tremor visa vie post tragic tornado and post viscous gun attacks,
leaving many dead, right there in Manila. Or, perhaps, it was my unrealistic
expectations, and the fact that Christmas there is a family thing and we
had no family other than those we took with us.
I was suffering the acutest attack of high humbug. It was never going
to be Thomas A Child's Christmas in Wales, or a merry Dickensonian
romp ending all smiles and sloshing Harveys Bristol Cream around
the freplace. Maybe Christmas, once you stop being a child, is like that.
Maybe Christmas is forever a disappointment. But my naive English
optimism imagined something much, much more from a land brimming
with countless confrmed Christians.
Christmas Day emerged from out of a bottled margarita fuelled haze.
Orchid Gardens Suites, in Malate, Manila, had released their barman
early for Christmas. There was no alcohol to be had there on Christmas
In search of
Christmas
lost.
Chinatown, Binondo
Candles in Santa Cruz Church, Binondo
124
Eve. Luckily our friends had bought a bottle of margarita, which we
hastily consumed in the hotel lobby, in lieu of the Southern Comfort on
the rocks I really wanted.
It was all getting quite out of hand, and a teansy weansy bit bizarre.
Christmas breakfast in our new hotel consisted of two types of cooked
fsh (one smoked), Chinese style salted egg, Tagalog (Filipino) Beef, an
assortment of fruits (including banana), veggies and a waffe replete with
a very smooth peanut butter and marmalade. Needless to say, it would
not have been my usual Christmas breakfast, but it was leaning towards
interesting.
I thanked whichever deity for the hotel lobby pseudo Christmas tree.
It had baubles and tinsel. I also thank the caterpillar clad eyes, and
roseate lips which uttered Merry Christmas sir, as a timely reminder
that it was, in actual fact, a Merry Christmas. We sat, the two families
and I, some time after 11am, Christmas morning, in Starbucks, at the
Harbour Square, Manila. My wife was sketching - its what artists do
apparently. There was one stepson reading, the other playing a game on
his mother's iphone. One friend was sending text messages, another
rustling in her handbag. One of their sons was drawing on their ipad,
another drawing on paper and the fnal son gaming, also on his hand
phone. I sat writing, disconnected from our group, but also totally aware
of my surroundings and the predominance of elder white men, escorting
much, much younger, Filipina women. I idly wondered who was whose
trophy.
The real Manila had revealed itself in the jeepney crowded streets
and the exhaust fume nightmare which had been Chinatown, Binondo,
Manila. Binondo Church, also known as the Minor Basilica of St. Lorenzo
Ruiz stood as a crumbling relic amidst the grotesquery of modern
Editor Martin Bradley, in Binondo
Breakfast, Orchid Gardens Suites
125
Santa Cruz Church, Binondo
126
architecture. Street living poor crowded urine soaked streets outside
Mc Donald's and Starbucks. Thoroughfares were a cacophony of jeepney
horns and belches of black smoke, as cycle rickshaw (trisikad) riders
pounded pedals into the smoky morass which could have doubled for
one of the outer regions of a Christian hell. Right there, right then
Christmas seemed further away than ever.
Later, sitting on the remains of Fort Santiago wall, I watched a pernicious
tugboat ease its way up the Pasig River, sending pink, grey and blue
waves against the citadel, creating sleek water sculptures with its wake.
The Filipino sun was setting on our last day (Christmas Day) in Manila.
Firecrackers sent salvos across the river as green galleon islands of water
Tricycles, Binondo
127
hyacinths foated by. Christmas had
sunk in the area in which a Muslim
Raja (Sulaiman) had once reigned.
It was a lesson in expectations,
mine had been high in that Catholic
country, and they were dashed.
Christmas, of course, was not out
there but in here (he says pointing
to his heart). I carried Christmas
with me. It was revealed in the
kindness of others - our travelling
companions. It was revealed
in their thoughtfulness, their
kindness and their consideration
for others. On Christmas Day, we
passed survivors of the tornado
Haiyan (seabird) living on steps
not far from our hotel. There
were several whole families living
there, women, children, babies all
dirt covered and trying to exist
somewhere, anywhere. As we sat
in KFC, we decided to do at least
a some very small thing to relieve
the burden of those step dwellers,
if only for a day. Between our two
families we bought eight packs of
KFC Streetwise Box, each box
containing six pieces of chicken,
and took them to those brave souls,
the survivors of tornado Haiyan. It
was all we could do, but at least
it was something and it revealed
Christmas in the giving, not the
expectation or the taking but right
there, on those steps, in Manila, in
the hearts of my Buddhist Chinese
friends (and wife).
After note, I did approach the
day manager of the Harrison
Plaza Village Square branch of
KFC, and told him what we were
doing, but he said it was company
policy not to be involved in such
charitable undertakings - this was
on Christmas Day, in a Catholic
country, but thats alright because
it is company policy.
Malati, Christmas
Jeepney
128
Uniquely Toro
is the story of a remarkable artist
known only
as Toro.
He has diligently tested the norms
and
conventions
of artistic society,
and shaken
a poignant fst at corruption
and prejudice.
It is a bold book
about temerity
and bravery
written and designed by Martin Bradley
Available through Waters Publishing House, Manila, The Philippines
129
130
Artists throughout the ages, including Hieronymus Bosch in the 15th century, have refected their societies
back to themselves in a variety of different ways. They have used many, and varied, signs, symbols and metaphors
within their artworks to refect the world in which they live. This is where a pipe is seldom just a pipe. In
this complex land of meanings and double meanings, the 21st century artist known as Toro proves to be no
exception and , furthermore, no disappointment to the enquiring mind.
Sometimes, as in his diligently executed action paintings, Toro allows the viewers minds to discover their
own forms within his structures. At other times Toro presents images to disturb and provoke, challenging the
viewer to tease deeper meanings from his works, such as Over Carbs, Z and more especially Chinaman -
where Toro boldly reveals deep-seated racial prejudices against people of Chinese origin. Even within these
thought provoking works Toro continues to link back to his action painting via splashes of paint framing
images taken from early cartoons.
Toro constantly acknowledges his debt to American action painter Jackson Pollock and to the French style
of Abstract Impressionism - Tachisme, as it has been refected in the works of Paul Riopelle and Alfred Otto
Wolfgang Schulze (Wols), among others. Toro continues to break fresh ground with his undoubted artistic
energy and his continuing zest for life which spills his style into new areas. At times Toro experiments with
video, but not the 5 hour plus epics of Andy Warhol, but rather the manageable video shorts which live in
YouTube. Toro, though serious about his work, does not shy from innuendo, or humour. He brings his action
painting into many materials - armchairs, dresses, purses, handbags, shirts and ties which take on potent
symbolic lives of their own. Toros imagination knows no bounds. This he demonstrates by carefully laid out
displays of wooden carved bull penises, splash-painted to unite imagination with symbolism as in his display
Z - concerning ancestry and delicate plays on words.
The Launch of Uniquely Toro
Author/designer Martin Bradley with artist Toro and artist agent Ignatius Yeo
131
As a contemporary Renaissance artist, Toro is open to use which ever
material springs to mind. He uses materials which assist with telling
which ever artistic narrative suits his communicative purpose. Action
painting on canvas, using acrylic paints has enabled Toro to emote in
very expressive ways (exhibitions - Transitions, Transcendence; Of
Memories and Places, Madness of Toro, Toros Temerity). Those canvases
have spoken directly to the emotions of his ever growing number of
collectors, as has been recognised with Toros art auction successes. The
celebrity portraits shown during his Over Carbs exhibition - a blending
of background splash painting and foreground, caricatured, portraiture
reveal another dimension to Toro, as do the visual essays Chinaman
(using comic panel representations) and Z (with carved representations
of bulls penises) and his YouTube video making.
From one manifested idea springs another. Action paining on canvas
begets a range of merchandising from painted armchairs to standard
lamps, a preserved bulls penis provokes a display of carved bull
penises, coloured with action painting. There is no enigma, nor dilemma
concerning the works of Toro. Toro advances as a creative individual,
learning, enquiring and practising his art as he grows into the role of
artist, as many have done before him.
Fresh from the press
132
Oh! what a lovely launch!
133
Aha, its the tie, not the guy
134 134
Exhibition Dusun
135 135
136 136
137
Doraemon is a Japanese children's manga series created by
Fujiko F. Fujio (the pen name of Hiroshi Fujimoto and Motoo
Abiko) which later became a animated television series and was
created on flm in 1979.
The series is about a robotic cat named Doraemon (built
September 3, 2112) who travels back in time
from the 22nd century to aid
a schoolboy, Nobita
Nobi. The name of
Doraemon comes
from 'Doraneko'
meaning stray
cat and 'Amon'
ending which is
part of traditional
Japanese names.
Doraemon is sent back in
time by Nobita Nobi's great-great grandson
Sewashi to improve Nobita's circumstances so that his
descendants may enjoy a better future. In the original time-line,
Nobita experienced nothing but misery and misfortune manifested
in the form of poor marks and grades, physical disasters, and
bullying throughout his life. This culminates in the burning down of
a future business he set up which leaves his family line beset with
fnancial problems. In order to alter history and better the Nobi
family's fortunes, Sewashi sent him a robot called Doraemon.
Doraemon has a pocket from which he produces many gadgets,
medicines, and tools from the future. The pocket is called yjigen-
pocket (lit. fourth-dimensional pocket). Some of the gadgets
(dgu) are based on real Japanese household devices with
fanciful twists, but most are completely science fction (although
some may be based on folklore or religious stories). Thousands
of dgu have been featured in Doraemon. The number of dgu
has been approximated at 4,500. It is this constant variety which
makes Doraemon popular even among adult readers/viewers.
In the series, the availability of dgu depends sometimes on the
money Doraemon has available, and he often says some dgu
are expensive in the future. The more famous ones include the
"bamboo-copter" (very similar to the ones that appears on the
older series of Beany and Cecil), a small head accessory that
allows fight; the "Anywhere
Door", a door that opens up to
any place the user wishes; and
the "Time Machine". Some of
the recurring dgu appear also
in Fujiko F. Fujio's other works
such as 21-emon, Kaibutsu-
kun, Kiteretsu Daihyakka, Mikio
to Mikio or Pman.
Although he can hear perfectly
well, Doraemon has no ears:
his robotic ears were eaten by a
mouse, giving him a series-long
phobia of the creatures.
The only main female character
is Shizuka Minamoto ( Minamoto
Shizuka?), who serves as
a semi-romantic girlfriend
of Nobita, but otherwise a
supporting, minor character.
Nobita's main human friends
include Takeshi (sometimes
named Jiian in the Indian
versions but sometimes his
name is mistaken as Takeshi
by his mother), a consummate
bully and Suneo,a cunning,
gloating,
137
138
Doraemon is a Japanese
children's manga series created
by Fujiko F. Fujio (the pen name
of Hiroshi Fujimoto and Motoo
Abiko) which later became a
animated television series and
was created on flm in 1979.
The series is about a robotic
cat named Doraemon (built
September 3, 2112) who
travels back in time from
the 22nd century to aid a
schoolboy, Nobita Nobi. The
name of Doraemon comes from
'Doraneko' meaning stray cat
and 'Amon' ending which is part
of traditional Japanese names.
Doraemon is sent back in time
by Nobita Nobi's great-great
grandson Sewashi to improve
Nobita's circumstances so
that his descendants may
enjoy a better future. In the
original time-line, Nobita
experienced nothing but misery
and misfortune manifested in
the form of poor marks and
grades, physical disasters, and
bullying throughout his life. This
culminates in the burning down
of a future business he set up
which leaves his family line
beset with fnancial problems. In
order to alter history and better
the Nobi family's fortunes,
Sewashi sent him a robot called
Doraemon.
Doraemon has a pocket from
which he produces many
gadgets, medicines, and tools
from the future. The pocket
is called yjigen-pocket (lit.
fourth-dimensional pocket).
Some of the gadgets (dgu)
are based on real Japanese
household devices with fanciful
twists, but most are completely
science fction (although some
may be based on folklore or
religious stories). Thousands
138
of dgu have been featured
in Doraemon. The number of
dgu has been approximated
at 4,500. It is this constant
variety which makes Doraemon
popular even among adult
readers/viewers. In the series,
the availability of dgu depends
sometimes on the money
Doraemon has available, and
he often says some dgu are
expensive in the future. The
more famous ones include the
"bamboo-copter" (very similar
to the ones that appears on
the older series of Beany and
Cecil), a small head accessory
that allows fight; the "Anywhere
Door", a door that opens up to
any place the user wishes; and
the "Time Machine". Some of
the recurring dgu appear also
in Fujiko F. Fujio's other works
such as 21-emon, Kaibutsu-
kun, Kiteretsu Daihyakka, Mikio
to Mikio or Pman.
Although he can hear perfectly
well, Doraemon has no ears:
his robotic ears were eaten by a
mouse, giving him a series-long
phobia of the creatures.
The series frst appeared in
December 1969, when it was
published simultaneously in
six different magazines. In
continued on page 94
139 139
140 140
141 141
It was a MUST for all Doraemon fans
and an introduction for others
142 142
An intriguing array of Doraemon gadgets
143 143
Full-sized models, cut-outs and Manga to tickle the senses
144 144
total, 1,344 stories were created in the original series, which are
published by Shogakukan under the Tentmushi ,manga brand,
extending to forty-fve volumes. The volumes are collected in the
Takaoka Central Library in Toyama, Japan, where Fujiko Fujio
were born. Doraemon: Nobita's Dinosaur 2006 (The 26th flm
in the franchise) got a private screening in Washington D.C. in
November 2008.
Doraemon was awarded the Japan Cartoonists Association
Award for excellence in 1973. Doraemon was awarded the frst
Shogakukan Manga Award for
children's manga in 1982.
In March 2008, Japan's
Foreign Ministry appointed
Doraemon as the nation's frst
"anime ambassador."
145 145
Doraemon Expo launch 2014, Kuala Lumpur
146
Food Dusun
On the Streets in
Snakes have never been my favourite creature. When I was living in rural
Malaysia I was fairly inundated with them. There were big yellow snakes,
small green snakes with pointy heads and the irascible brown cobras
of various sizes. They all came visiting my green garden at one time or
another.
Let me make it absolutely clear that it was not revenge. My dislike of
that particular reptile species had little, or nothing, to do with what
happened. It was fate, coupled with odd circumstances which had led
us to the Art Deco Psah Thom Thmey, (New Grand Market), in Phnom
Penh. I was researching for this very article concerning Khmer street
food and Seney, art teacher, friend and knower, led us to the Central
Market aka Psah Thom Thmey.
The bulk of the market was awash with all the usual tourist tat - pseudo
Starbucks T shirts, even faker watches, paste jewellery and all kinds of
imaginable, or unimaginable items to tickle fancies or bore you to a
premature death. However, one section drew our undivided attention
and that was, yes you have guessed it - the food section.
Green gelatinous substances, which may or may not have been grass
jelly, shone in the rayed sunlight. Glints of light bounced from the backs
with Martin Bradley
Cambodia
Spatchcock chicken freshly grilled
147
of some of the hugest freshwater
prawns I have ever seen. A myriad
crabs, purple or blue or that deep
green mud colour were tossed
with bright red chillies. Squids
and orange prawns were caught
between wooden sticks and grilled.
Blue Water Hyacinth fowers lay
bunched with Khmer leaves of all
varieties, ready for salads. Eggs of
all sizes, and a variety of colours,
nestled on plates. I later learned
that none of those eggs were
chicken eggs, but duck, turtle and,
the larger white eggs - swan.
Pastries, perhaps hailing from the
days of the French or Portuguese,
were stacked, their sugar glinting
in what sun penetrated that
market. Small sweet donuts,
their centres missing, lay next to
orange fried doughs lavished with
sugary coating and sprinkled with
desiccated coconut. Rounds of
fried batter, tasting like the centre
of a South Indian Appom and
possibly Vietnamese, were being
freshly cooked, and deliciously so.
Baguettes poked out everywhere
as did You Tiao, or Chopstick
Cake, make from deep fried dough,
perhaps a remnant of Chinese
immigration.
There were packets of different
Very sweet glazed donuts
Vietnamese fermented pancakes Cooked blue crab
148
Market parcels galore
148
149 149
150
sizes, wrapped in a variety of leaves for steaming or roasting. Some
contained glutinous rice, others were either savoury or sweet. Some
looked like Chinese Khang, others like Malay leaf parcels, but the
contents were unguessable. Seney just scratched his head with a your
guess is as good as mine. One thousand and one things were being
displayed at that market to eat, or to cook.
Eventually we exited Central Market, satiated with Cambodian Appam
and sweet, creamy Vietnamese coffee. We dodged across the road in
between racing Honda Scoopy (i) scooters and all manner automobiles
owned by the extremely well-heeled - the market is not just a place for
the working poor. My vehicle dodging over, and my eye was caught by a
street vendor. Her bicycle box had a variety of edible objects but it was
the red coloured coils that drew my attention. Oddly enough, I had been
only been reading about these the day before on the internet, and to
date had never seen edible snakes (prolith) for sale in Cambodia.
During our travels in Cambodia I had seen many dried, crispy beetles,
crickets and other forms of insect for sale. On the way to Battambang,
once before, I had even tried fried grasshoppers, which were crispy and
crunchy but a little unremarkable. I had noticed honeycomb (with dead
bee's larvae still in), being sold as a dessert delicacy, on the way to
Phnom Penh, but could not bring myself to taste it. Frogs, snails and duck
egg embryos sold in Phnom Penh, are pretty much de rigueur these days.
There was a moment when I could have turned away, walked off and
simply forgot all about the eating of reptiles. Nevertheless I was caught
Honeycomb with bee larvae
Fried crickets
Fried beetles
151
in that moment, and the more I looked the more curious I became. The small thin snakes were skinless and
dried. Their skins were fattened, and to be bought separately. Amidst stares of disbelief from some, smirks
from others and outright laughter from some of the local Khmer, I bought two rounds of dried snake. The
vendor immediately put them onto a grill, burnt each side of each and then put them through a mangle
to fatten them. It was with huge trepidation that I ventured to put that burnt, mangled, dried snake into
my mouth. I need not have worried, that former reptile just had a dried, burnt, mangled taste - that was it.
Nothing to make any kind of fuss over, and maybe a tad boring if it wasnt for the fact that I had just eat snake,
and not the other way round. I gave the second snake coil to a street boy who seemed happy to receive it.
Dried coiled snake
Yummy, not!
152
Salt grilled fsh
152
153 153
154
Pong tea khon - fertilised duck egg
154
155
......and SNAILS
all photographs taken in situ by
Pei Yeou and Martin Bradley
156
157
158
http://www.amazon.com/Buffalo-Breadfruit-Unwary-Malaysia-ebook/dp/B008BHM91C

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