As I sat in front of our house in Kampong, I whiled away a portion of one late afternoon by speaking in French with a neighbor from across the street. The balding man spoke with a peculiar dialect, and I listened while drinking coconut juice out of a straw. In the middle of an interrupted thought about the passing monsoon season, the father of my host family came to the front door, said something in Khmer that I did not understand, and beckoned me to come inside the house. I went immediately to the kitchen of our house thinking that it was time for dinner. There was no one in the kitchen, however, and I was confused about what to do. I asked the father if it was time for dinner, but it took a full ten minutes of pantomime and frantic searching in my Cambodian/English dictionary before he understood what I was asking about. This was the answer:
“No, you take nuk dtuck (a bath)!”
I heaved a heavy sigh of relief as I poured bucket after bucket of cold water on myself in the bathroom, and dried myself off. When I dressed and came downstairs, the short, ornery grandmother of the family yelled angrily at me, and indicated that my head was not combed properly. Through another series of non verbal communication, I understood that I would have to change my shirt and comb my head if I was to be invited to dinner. I followed these directions, and put on a collared shirt in my room. The grandmother laughed at me when I came downstairs from my room, and unbuttoned my shirt as a sign that I had misinterpreted her gesture. Once again I changed clothes, and came downstairs.
My host mother, remembering that I had done the dishes after lunch that day, asked me in English if I was interested in helping to prepare dinner. As a sign of integrating into the family, I smiled and heartily agreed. The mother laughed, however, and shook her head.
“Sorry, just kidding.”
In traditional Khmer households, it is generally understood that men do not do any sort of housework. Because I had done the dishes twice for the family after lunch in an effort to integrate, I assumed that my family thought that I was either a very strange foreigner, or just a big girly man. Being curious, I insisted on helping to prepare the dinner for that evening. My host mother led me over to a stone bowl where I ground peanuts, water, and yellow spices into a thick paste called crüen. The grandmother, who insists on shouting things at me in Khmer kept repeating “bok crüen!” I asked in response:
“Khyom bok crüen?” (I grind crüen?)
“Cha, Neak bok crüen.” (Yes, you are grinding crüen)
When dinner was prepared, we turned on the electricity and sat around the television set. A mat was laid out, and we sat and ate while watching the evening news. Dinner consisted of rice, some fish, vegetables in chicken broth, and fresh clams that were still in their shells. I had never eaten clams in such a fashion, and the grandmother took it upon herself to show how to break them open, pour spices on them, and slurp them into one’s mouth. The only other time that she spoke to me during the meal was when she asked if I wanted more rice.
Taik Bai (Would you like more rice)?
At tay or-koon (No, thank you).
Everyone ate in silence and watched the television, with the occasional remark in English or Khmer to tell me what the broadcast was about. After everything was cleared away, the family and I stayed around the T.V. and watched Asian soap operas that were obviously dubbed from the original Japanese or Chinese. I took it upon myself to fill in what people were saying to each other since I obviously cannot speak Khmer yet. Here is an example:
(Man and woman are together alone on a bridge at night. They are staring at each other longingly as snow is falling, and speaking in monotone voices.)
Woman: I heard you went to Chipotle without me. How dare you!
Man: I honestly thought you didn’t like Chipotle. Besides, Frank invited me and it was kind of a last minute thing.
Woman: You could have asked me!
Man: But I remember you saying that the big burritos make you sick to your stomach!
Woman: That’s only if I eat a whole one! You could have picked up a salad bowl.
Man: No man picks up a salad bowl at Chipotle. It’s just not done. Wow, this is kind of awkward, because I was actually about to ask you to marry me.
(Pulls out a wedding ring box, and opens it to reveal the gem.)
Woman: I’m sorry, but I can’t marry a man who refuses to pick up a salad bowl for me.
(Woman runs away crying. Man falls to his knees and looks upward. Cue dramatic sounding orchestral number.)
During the episode, my host dad picked up a piece of fruit, and said, “Kiss, smell! No eat! Stomach ache!” and then laughed. The fruit was something called bai cha, and it is indeed rather repulsive. By 8:15 or so, I excused myself, brushed my teeth, took my malaria pills, and got inside my mosquito net to go to sleep. By 9:00, I was dreaming of burritos and guacamole.
In the morning, I was dashing off to language class when the sister of my host mother stopped me at the door. She insisted that I could not go outside with a shirt that did not have its sleeves buttoned, and that I had to button them before I went outside. When I arrived at my instructor’s house, I took off my shoes, walked up a steep flight of stairs, and greeted my instructor when I arrived on the wooden balcony that is our classroom. Four hours of language class ensued.
“On The Seventh Day He Rested…”
As I am writing this, it is another Sunday, and another day off. I am sitting at my desk, a mosquito coil is burning at my feet, and it is just after lunch in the afternoon. The sound of a Gamelan orchestra is coming through the window, and it is almost time to take another cold bath.
I long for these days. Training is six days a week, and I am quite exhausted at the end of it. Two trainees have already dropped out and gone home, and I am trying to rest, write letters, and practice the violin today as much as I can so that I do not burn out as well. Living here is very hard, and I have not quite yet thought of it as home for the next two years. I still have dreams where I am in the States, only to wake and find that I am still in Kampuchea. I have a vague intuition, however, that it is only temporary. I am confident that familiarity will be established with time.
If you can imagine the sound of scales and Bach violin sonatas drifting over the rice fields of Southeast Asia, this is where I am.
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