The Jams are Dead. Long Live the Jams

I’m seven. I’m bustin’ my little butt to second base in a game of wiffle ball that will go down in the annals of memorable Wilt Family reunions.

A distant, distant, oh so genetically distant relative, a huge oaf of a man with an overabundance of chromosomes and an underabundance of teeth, chases after me. When he goes for the tag my right leg somehow ends up in between his scissoring tree trunks of legs and ….SNAP!

I’m on the ground near second base staring up the trunk of an elm tree. Relatives stop talking about the weather long enough to say, “Did you hear that? It sounded like a chicken bone snapping.” And then they return to their conversation. “Mable Sue, how much rain did ya’ll get up north?”

My femur is broken and my leg begins to balloon.

I’m crying. I scream “you broke my leg, you broke my leg.” If I knew any profanity beyond “fart face” or “eye ball head” I would have used it.

My father tells me to walk it off as if “walking it off” would eliminate a week in the hospital and 8 weeks in a full-leg cast.

A card table is brought out as a litter and the paramedics in the family, happy to have some action at a family reunion, whisk me away in the back of a van. And this is where it gets ugly.

I’m wearing my favorite pair of Jam shorts. Jams are colorful, baggy shorts that dominated my summer wardrobe in the mid-80’s.

The scissors come out and they tell me they are going to have to cut off my shorts. Broken femurs heel, but a boy’s favorite pair of Jams don’t. I offer to take them off and they have none of it.

Snip, snip. My jams are dead.

This is the last I recall wearing Jams. They died as a fashion trend shortly after that. I miss them. Their bright-colored bagginess represents the “screw looks, I want comfort” school of fashion that I try to adhere to this very day. But I just can’t bring myself to wearing Jams anymore. Besides, I wouldn’t know wear to buy them, until now…

Jams are alive in well in Cambodia. It had been so long since I’ve see a pair that I almost didn’t recognize them, like meeting an old friend whose face you nearly forgot.

Check ‘em out.

Now, don’t those look comfy?

As thrilled as I am to see that Jams, and everything that they represent, live on in our world, there’s no way I’m buying a pair. I’m not sure why. Maybe I’ve been tainted by some sense of fashion. Or maybe, I remember the pain as I watched my favorite pair get cut in two and I don’t want to experience that again. Whatever the reason, I still love Jams. We had a good run…other than that one to second base.

Long Live the Jams!

What do making Jeans and Bowling have in common?

These workers would rather not do either.

I took them bowling. Nails were broken. Heavy balls were heaved. And sore arms were rubbed. It didn’t take.

My extensive, highly-scientific, ground-breaking research has turned up yet another amazing discovery that will contribute to the human knowledge-base…

Garment workers don’t like bowling.

Notes From a Garment Factory

The following are excerpts from my notes from my visit to Roo Hsing Garment Factory:-
“My boss says that he would like to dry your pants.”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

A phone call is made and someone whooshes in and off my jeans go
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We walk down the line starting at a completed pair of Levi’s. Some 85 people have a hand in sewing one pair of blue jeans. That doesn’t count the people who cut the fabric, wash the jeans, make the pockets, or ship.
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It’s seeing a pair of jeans being disassembled in 85 parts.
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The famous Levi’s gold thread spirals from the top of the sewing machines and into the blue jeans in short spurts.
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The girls, and they are mainly girls, not guys and not women, rarely lookup from their work to check us out. When your boss is looking over your shoulder, it’s a good idea to double your efforts and your output.
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In this room, women take completed, near flawless pairs of pants and fray the edges of the pockets and cuffs with a grinder. I guess I never thought that this was actually someone’s job - a single person on a single pair of pants. Someone that has a name and a family flawed the jeans because the people in other countries (Levi’s aren’t sold in Cambodia) would buy them because they thought they were cool.
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The legs of the jeans flop in the sandstorm. These are sand-washed jeans and this is the sand-washing guy.
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Are breathing these chemicals harmful? Who am I to say. You just have to have faith that the excellent monitoring system in place in Cambodia ensures that areas like this are relatively safe and healthy working environments. In fact, in the logbook I signed a member of the ILO (International Labor Organization) had signed in earlier that day. The industry has historically (on a global level) such a bad reputation that many people hear “garment industry” and they think the worst, when in fact, because of this reputation, a lot has changed. Workers in other industries would be lucky to have some of the conditions in the garment industry.
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A voice comes over the speaker and the rows and rows of workers step from their machines, putting a halt to the machine gun firing needles. Club music pounds a rhythm in the background over the cracking speakers. The voice directs the stretching.
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One machine is responsible for sewing the Levi’s back pocket design. It cost $20,000. A woman loads it with a pattern and some denim and presses a button. The design is on in less than 2 seconds.
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They return my jeans, dry and stainless. I’ve never had a cleaner pair.

If Willy Wonka made blue jeans…

…his factory would be about the same sizes as the Roo Hsing Garment Factory in Phnom Penh.

As I approach the mirrored-glass doors all I can see is my reflection. The plant manager opens the door and I disappear. An endless room of workers and sewing machines appear.

Some 85 people have a hand in making one pair of blue jeans. This Blue Jean Land is occupied by 1,000 workers.

More on this later…

Thanks to Levi’s for arranging the visit and thanks to the management at the Roo Hsing factory for giving me a most thorough tour. And the best part is that while they were giving me a tour, they got a stain out of my Made In Cambodia Levi’s that had been on there since the Bangladeshi New Year. Yeah, industrial cleaners!

In case you are perplexed…No I wasn’t walking around in my underwear. I had brought my Levi’s to show them and was wearing another pair of pants. Although, I have to admit, me walking around a factory in my underwear does make a better story.

Where Kent is Wearing

All of our underwear comes from somewhere. This is where Kent’s came from.

Kent, aka Denzel, a member of WAIW’s Underwear Wall of Fame, sent me the address of the factory that his MADE IN CAMBODIA boxers originated. I tracked it down. That’s me in front of the Suntex factory.

The Suntex factory is on the outskirts of Phnom Penh near an infamous Killing Field. I went there on a scooter. It was hot and the road was a dusty, stinky mess. From the entrance, the factory looked big, more of a compound really.

I didn’t get a chance to meet any of the workers, but I can give you a rough idea what they are like from my other encounters.

- 90% of them are women
- Most of them between the ages of 20-27
- They left their home village to work in garments
- They average somewhere between $45-$80/month (pretty decent in Cambodia)
- They think I’m weird

Roasting Dr. Timmerman (My Brother)

After some 26 semesters at the University level, my brother, Kyle, has finally graduated with a PhD in Exercise Physiology. His advisor held a roast in honor of the occasion that none of us ever thought would come.

I missed it. My excuse: I was sleeping. And, oh yeah, I’m in Cambodia.

I really wanted to be there. There were a lot of friends and family that were attending the roast. I always appreciate when others join-in to help make fun of my big brother. Usually, I have to do all of the heavy lifting.

Despite my on-the-other-side-of-the-world status, I still contributed to the roast. From my hotel in Battambang, I recorded 3 minutes worth of loving cheap shots and sent the file to Kyle’s advisor. I don’t get homesick often, but that day I was. I felt really bad for missing a major milestone in my brother’s life, disappointed that I wouldn’t be there with all of Kyle’s friends from Purdue that I’ve come to know and with all of our family that was planning to attend.

This video is my attempt to be a good virtual brother.

At the urinal I’m the only one that touches me, GOT IT!

The bathroom attendant is wearing a red bow tie. When I walk in he bows, and not just a little bow, a big one. I consider urinals and opt for the one in its own private little nook. I unzip and I’m about to begin.

That’s when the shoulder massage starts.

What the @#$@#%!! If there is one rule that I’ve strictly maintained my entire life it’s that I don’t urinate if someone is touching me. Especially if that someone is giving me a shoulder massage. And most especially if he is wearing a red bow tie.

I look over my shoulder, the left one, as he kneads away. My face is twisted with violation. I shake my head no and then nod for him to back off, not that I would be able to do anything if he didn’t. I’m kind of in a vulnerable position.

He gets the hint.

I’m relieved.

The really freaky part is that beyond the walls of the Golden Boss’s bathroom, the scene is just as weird.

Chinese business men hire girls to dance with them. Chinese business men dance. Planets hang from the ceiling. Laser lights beam onto the floor. The singing is at such a high pitch and amplified at such a level that people dance with their hands over their ears and still manage to stay on beat.

Everybody that is, except for the Chinese business men.

The Gold Boss nightclub, it’s a name that makes no sense. It’s fitting. It purveys the perfect amount of unintended overdoneness. This place, a sort of writing fodder paradise, is a full-on assault of the senses and has complete disregard for everything that is tasteful.

It was marvelous. Except the shoulder massage. That really freaked me out.

NGO: O.S.H.I.T

This is the first entry in the Create Your Own NGO Contest, and it’s a good one. I about OSHIT myself from laughing. Thanks Kyle.

Organization for Super Hero Identity Theft

What’s the first thing to go through a superhero’s head when his secret identitiy has been compromised? That’s right, O.S.H.I.T. It is O.S.H.I.T.’s mission to quickly relocate unmasked crime fighters, and to assign them new aliases in the event that their true identities are discovered by any of a variety of ne’er-do-wells.
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If you haven’t entered, and I know you haven’t, do so now! Because like John Cougar Mellencamp said, “You gotta stand for something. Or your gonna fall for anything.”

UPDATE: Kyle aka Malaria Boy, my brother graduated from Purdue University today with a PhD in exercies physiology. Way to go Kyle. I am truely sorry, and a bit homesick, that I couldn’t be there for todays events. It’s been a long ride. He was studying at the University level for 13 years.

Black Market Blue Jeans

The Russian Market is truly a SWEAT shop - all of the shoppers are dripping in sweat. But it would take a lot more than a little heat to scare them away from the $5 Levi’s or the $3 GAP polo shirts.

The place is a labyrinth of crafts, junk, bikes, fruits and veggies, restaurants (I love me the fried bananas), and clothing shops. Two average-sized foreigners can’t pass each other in the narrow walkways without getting “friendly.” Clothes are piled on tables and hung from the walls and ceiling, hiding the actual structure of the building. The shopkeepers, like ET among the stuffed animals, can be seen if you look real close.

Entering is the shopping equivalent of being blind-folded and spun around. When I exited the only directions I knew were up and down.

I bought two shirts - one Old navy, and one GAP – for $6. Total. I probably could have gotten them for $2/shirt.

A few days later I wore the GAP shirt to my meeting with the Levi’s Country Manager. The Russian Market came up.

Me: “My shirt is from the GAP. I bought it at the Russian Market.”

Country Manager: “Everything there is stolen goods from the factories. There’s nothing we can do about it. No laws in place to stop the sales. Levi’s doesn’t have a market in Cambodia so at least we are not competing with our stolen products. It’s more of an annoyance than anything.”

KT: “I thought the products there were all overruns or flaws.”

CM: “Brand names don’t sell off their overruns. We have our own way of taking care of them. In fact, some companies who were short on their count have gone to the Russian Market to buy their own products back to meet a deadline.”

Black Market Blue Jeans – just another facet in the crazy world of the garment industry.

Granny was a Garment Worker

Levis continues to rock. In the very near future I will be touring one of the factories that produce their jeans. Is it weird that I’m excited to see how my blue jeans are made?

I was talking with my Grandma Wilt today, updating her on my progress here in Cambodia, when she chimed in with an interesting bit o’ tid…

“I used to work in a garment factory in Versailles (OH). We made bibs for Lee…I sewed on the pockets.”

She only did the job during the summers and didn’t like it very much. The money wasn’t very good.

“The more pieces you completed the more you got paid. I was never fast enough to make much money.”

So there you have it. I’ve traveled thousands of miles at great personal expense to meet garment workers and my very own Grandma in Illinois was one.