the road

there’s a cute cafe near my hotel, one that i visited daily for lunch and dinner when i was here before on my volunteer program. dine is friends with the owner, a young, 25 year old, very smiley fresh faced guy, who lives in the back of the restaurant with his pregnant wife, his 1 year old daughter, his mom and his grandma and various cousins and other extraneous family members. 

it’s called the honolulu cafe, and while i never understood what that name had to do with the cuisine or the environment (as there is no pineapple drenched short ribs served, no tiki torches, no leis), the food is yummy and the vibe is nice, and there’s a big futon couch out front that i have spent ample amounts of time lazing on, smoking cigarettes and drinking “coca light”.

i’ve come to call the owner mr. honolulu, instead of his real name, which is a sound my mouth can’t quite make, and out of frustration and sheer embarrassment, mr. honolulu it is. he likes it and it makes him smile his big, wide, bright smile.

i spent a few hours with him yesterday. his english is immaculate, his pronounciation near perfect, and he spilled some stories of his life, his journey, and i sat there dumbfounded, speechless, touching his hand, as his words enveloped me.

he grew up in an orphanage, with his mother. living on the floor, scrounging for food. digging in the forest for a yam, a piece of fruit, something. his father and most of his family were killed by the khmer rouge regime, or lost in all the madness, and he and his mother fled for safety in what appeared to be better than living on the streets. 

he was “adopted” by a french woman, a woman i believe probably filled out one of those forms in a magazine that ask you to “adopt a child for as little as $10 a month, the price of 2 grande coffees at starbucks”. she supported him monthly, sending her $10 so that his mother and he could buy some rice, maybe a shirt or two, and he could go to school. 

he said to me, “$10 is a lot of money.” and i shook my head, yes yes yes, indeed it is.

she dilligently sent her money, for over 10 years. she wrote letters, he wrote back, and he promised her he would study and get an education. 

mr honolulu kept his promise to mademoiselle french lady, and he ended up going to university. 

he paid his tuition by taking many jobs, one at a fancy-pants hotel here, so he could practice his english and see the world through the eyes of the tourists, and understand and connect to a life outside of a mat on the floor in an orphanage.

mme french lady was coming to town, and she wanted to meet him. they had been pen pals for over 10 years, and she wanted to see her “son”, embrace him, celebrate all his accomplishments. so she came. she flew thousands of miles to see his face, to see his smile.

he learned french so they could talk face-to-face.

she stayed in the fancy-pants hotel and threw a party for him and his whole family, the ones that were left. he and his new wife stayed at the hotel for the night, in a plush deluxe room where they oohed and aahed over running water and a bed that wasn’t made of straw. 

he showed me pictures of the party, of the room, of their magical eyes staring at the flat-screen tv and the king sized bed. and he clung to a tissue and wiped his eyes. so did i.

then he met a lady at the hotel, a wealthy american woman, who travels constantly in pursuit of knowledge. she took a liking to mr. honolulu; she found him to be hard working and earnest and sincere, and she, too, wanted to help him achieve his goals, meet his dreams. she saw in him what mme french lady did, and she said “i want to help you, too.”

she’s from hawaii.

hence, the “honolulu cafe”.

this was his dream, to have a place of his own, and ms. hawaii helped him and encouraged him and cheerleaded him. he learned about food at the fancy-pants hotel, learned hospitality there, learned everything he could so he could open the honolulu cafe. for her. for mme french lady. for himself, for his wife, for his daughter, his long-suffering mom. to say “i can do something” after all that he had lived through. 

ms hawaii comes twice a year and helps him with his business, shows him the way, leads him onto paths he didn’t know were there. 

he said, “eliz, i want you to meet her when she comes back.” and i said yes yes yes, indeed, i want to meet ms. hawaii too.

i thought about mr honolulu’s plight. i thought about him sleeping on a dirty floor, huddled with his mom, hearing gunfire and watching people get injured and maimed. i realized that at this time, i was brooding over ayn rand’s “the fountainhead”, listening to the smiths, chain smoking merits and trying to figure out what i was meant to do in this world. 

and so was mr. honolulu in a very, very different way. 

and maybe we both found it. maybe we’re both on the roads that we were meant to be on, and we’ve come together to celebrate our very windy, loopy paths that somehow came together in this tiny, dusty, beautiful place called siem reap.

we wiped away each others tears, we hugged and i started to pedal away. but i turned back and said, “mr honolulu! you’ve had a very lucky and blessed life!” and he put his hands together in buddhist prayer and shouted, “yes, i have!”