By FABIANA ARRASTIA Special to the Palisadian-Post My sister and I ventured into Cambodia in 1993, taking a cargo boat up the Tonle Sap River from Phenom Penh to Siem Riep. Among the farm animals, local peoples and the smoke of their fast food hibachis, we slept in rugged green canvas hammocks for three purgatorial days, struggling for personal space and praying for immunity against opportunistic pirates on the river’s periphery.   When we arrived in Siem Riep, we rented motorbikes to traverse the dirt roads that weaved in and out of the ancient ruins of the famed Ankor Wat. The place had an aura of awkward solitude. The Khmer Rouge were rumored to still be hiding in the nearby hillsides and were deviously hopeful in the wake of the UN’s withdrawal. Most troubling was the one-in-five maimed Cambodians who had yet to be graced by talk of Princess Diana and her anti-landmine legacy. It was a stark reminder of the large gap that had yet to be bridged between hope and insecurity for the innocent people of Cambodia. Still, that didn’t deter us from wanting to visit the crown jewel of Ankor: Banteay Srei Temple, 13 kilometers away, where reports of gunfire and mine explosions surfaced daily. We went with two other backpackers, from Australia, who, like us, scoffed at the warnings given by the humble owners of our guesthouse. Even the local men who happily took our money in exchange for the use of their motorbikes dubbed us crazy ‘farangs’ (foreigners). The only road to Banteay Srei was treacherous, with stretches of soft sand that had our motorbikes swerving out of control. A third of the way there, my sister fell off of her bike in one of those sandbanks. Though unhurt, she decided that the difficult journey was a bad omen and that we should turn back. Her sudden trepidation startled me. It was unlike her to back out of an adventure, even with risk involved. That was usually a stance reserved for me-‘chicken that I was. For once, the tables were turned, and I wasn’t about to lose out on the opportunity to appear braver than my sister. We parted ways. I continued on the road with my two Aussie escorts. Finally, without much incident, we arrived at Banteay Srei. It was as beautiful as the Lonely Planet Guide had boasted: ”Delicately carved pink stone, said to have been built by a woman, so elaborately fine were the three dimensional carvings.’ A one-legged, 14-year-old boy, in tattered military attire, guarded the temple entrance. Though he never uttered a word during our tour of the grounds, he seemed happy for our company. On our way out, I posed with him for a picture, with me holding (awkwardly) his AK-47 rifle. Returning to Siem Riep, I imagined how I would boast about the day’s adventure: the boy with one leg, his rifle, the warnings not to go to the temple, my courage not to listen. But the ego-laden reverie stopped when my motorbike ran out of gas. As my engine began to sputter and die, I yelled after my friends who, in the wake of their own noisy motors, could not hear me, and soon disappeared from sight. Fighting an approaching panic, I moved my bike to the side of the road, mindful of the lurking landmines. The few farmers that passed me stared with curiosity; so rare was the sight of a Westerner in these parts. I tried communicating with them, pantomiming my need for ‘petrol,’ but their confusing ‘bobble-head’ gestures left me with a nagging memory of my sister’s ‘bad omen’ prediction.   Wearily, I contemplated my options as the sky, awash in the darkening pink hues of dusk, lulled the day to an end. On the edge of a rice paddy was a tiny palm-fringed hut on stilts and a warm glowing light peering out of its only window. Tethered underneath was a water buffalo quietly grazing. It was so serene that a calm overtook me and then, a resolve to get help. I brushed myself off and walked towards the hut; towards the water buffalo who knew my chances better than I did. No matter. I never made it over to the hut with the water buffalo because it turned out to be a rice paddy, ankle-deep in water. At this point, it was dark. I wasn’t only terrified of the land mines but of cobra snakes, so I went back and sat next to my motorcycle. About 45 agonizing minutes later, one of my Australian cohorts returned with profuse apologies. Turns out they hadn’t noticed I wasn’t with them until they reached Siem Riep. I then hopped on the back of his motorcycle and went to buy a plastic jug of petrol from the nearest kiosk (gas stations don’t exist in these parts). By the time I got back to my guesthouse in Siem Riep, my sister was sick with worry. Fabiana Arrastia has traveled extensively around the world. In 1993, she took a year sabbatical and backpacked in 11 countries. She currently runs a small macrobiotic/vegan catering business, enjoys running, and likes to read and write short stories and poetry. She resides in Pacific Palisades with her kids, Zoe, 13, and Tenzin, 8, and her husband, Tom, a film producer.

The Pacific Palisades Historical Society is planning an excursion to the Los Angeles Police Department Museum and Pacific-Asia Museum on Thursday, April 9. The bus leaves at 9 a.m. at Sunset and Los Liones Drive and will return at approximately 5 p.m.   The LAPD Museum, opened in 2003 in a former police station in Eagle Rock, chronicles the department’s history of cases and memorable events. There is a prominent display of police uniforms for men and women that covers the department’s 140-year history. A display case houses the original ‘Dragnet script’ (1951-59 and 1967-70) and the LAPD badge worn by fictional Sgt. Joe Friday. Most ambitious among the exhibits is a room devoted to the North Hollywood shootout in 1997. Two life-size mannequins toting machine guns and wearing blood-stained body armor has brought gasps from visitors young and old alike.   LAPD was the first police department to open a crime lab, use radios in patrol cars and establish an internal affairs unit.   The Pacific-Asia museum is a small museum designed to look like an exotic Chinese villa during the early Manchu period. Built in 1929 as the home and sales galleries of Grace Nicholson, an early dealer of Asian and Western art, the galleries surround a courtyard Chinese garden. Displayed prominently are the art and cultural elements of Asia and the Pacific Islands in a collection of some 14,000 artistic works and artifacts. There are Japanese abstract paintings, a thousand years of Chinese porcelain and ceramics, Tibetan furniture, costumes of Korea and Pakistan, Buddhist icons and one of the most beautiful jade collections in the world. The gift shop has a nice selection of books, handcrafts, replicas and Asian antiques.   For reservations, send a check ($15) to PPHS, P.O. Box 1299, Pacific Palisades 90272, before April 3.

Garden and home design writer Debra Prinzing will share her enthusiasm and creative ideas on garden hideaways for Garden Club members and guests on Monday, April 6, 7:30 p.m. at the Woman’s Club, 901 Haverford. Prinzing and her photographer, William Wright, roamed the country for two years in her search for sheds and backyard sanctuaries. While a shed typically conjures up images of a four-sided structure providing storage or shelter, Prinzing redefined the idea in her own voice for her book, ‘Stylish Sheds and Elegant Garden Hideaways (Clarkson Potter).   ’My point of interest is where horticulture and architecture intersect,’ she says, explaining that she became interested in the subject after seeing a lot of potting sheds that had been tricked out with art, hanging plants, potted plants’and turned into private enclaves. ‘I look at these structures as personal outdoor dwelling places that contain your personal passion. This can be for writing poetry, practicing yoga, dining, a guest house or just a place to unwind.’ In writing the book, she and Wright discovered traditional Nantucket-style structures all across the country from Seattle to a South Hampton shed, modeled after fisherman’s shack on north fork of Long Island. On the other extreme, they found a southwestern-style stucco enclosure with a red tile roof set in a cactus garden roof in Rancho Santa Fe.   Prinzing and Wright even unearthed an 8-ft. by 10-ft. glass-and-stone structure tucked behind a New York City brownstone, and a 400-ft. garage in Santa Monica converted into a painter’s studio and painted paprika red. ‘Perhaps the one that is closest to home for me belonged to Sonni Rudd, who lives in Seattle,’ Prinzing says, feeling nostalgic for her former life in the Emerald City. She moved with her husband and children from Seattle to Thousand Oaks two years ago because of her husband’s job. Rudd bought wood from a century-old barn in Centralia, Washington, to build a dreamy cottage, with old windows and door. ‘I think that will inspire readers to use these old treasures’old doors, windows, seasoned wood’in a new structure,’ Prinzing says. Styles run the gamut of one’s imagination, she notes. On the high end, some are equipped with power and heat and require building permits. Others might be a simple old potting shed, filled with dusty tools that the owner turned into a real shelter ‘away from the Blackberry.’   Prinzing brings experience as a writer and a master gardener to the topic. She studied landscape, horticulture and design while living in Seattle and says that she feels fortunate to be living in Southern California, where she has enjoyed learning about the flora and fauna.   The author of several books, Prinzing also writes for periodicals and lectures on gardening topics across the country.