The Rains of the Orient

I have seen the rains fall in this country like no other place on earth. They come suddenly on clear, sunny days, or when dark looming clouds containing patches of sunlight can be seen in the near horizon. When it rains, it pours so much that you might think you were stuck inside a washing machine. Cambodians believe that you will be sick if you are caught in the rain for too long, and the family I live with always asks me if I have a good raincoat. When the rainy season comes, it fills the Tonlé Sap River with enough water to burst beyond its banks and spill into the neighboring rice fields. When you first arrive in this country, you wonder why most of the houses you see are built on stilts. Then the rains come, and you know exactly why.

The farmers in these parts abandon their oxen carts, and move around their land in long, skinny, wooden boats. I remember seeing one man stood at the back of his boat and propelled himself with only a single oar. He wore black with the exception of a cone-shaped straw hat that was painted blue. The skinny white cows that are always causing traffic jams on the dirt roads wash themselves frequently in this water during the rainy season. They simply immerse themselves, and their caretakers come along to tend to them.

I remember sitting in a plastic chair on the upstairs porch of my Khmer teacher’s house one afternoon during a lesson, and watching the rains come through in the afternoon. The sheer torrent of water that the skies emptied upon us was absolutely staggering. The yard in front of the house turned into a lake, and the road beyond the yard turned into a river. I strained to hear my teacher explain the ordering of Khmer consonants, but the rain had a much more powerful voice. It was deafening, but the sound was marvelous at the same time. It roared as it battered on the swaying coconut trees and on the roof of the house. A nearby crack of thunder was heard, and the wind blew the spray onto our notebooks and bags. One of the seams in the dark-brown wooden planks above us opened up, and let the water stream onto the whiteboard. It erased the lesson notes that my teacher was writing, and nearly drenched the man as well. A fifteen-minute rest was declared to wait until the rain passed. I started laughing.

“Lok cru, Kampuchea mean ruck duhl wüt sah?” (Most respected teacher, did you say that Cambodia has a wet season?) I ask.
“Bat, Adrian. Kampuchea mean” (Yes, Adrian, Cambodia has a wet season). He bears his teeth, squints his eyes, and begins to laugh as well.

At four o’clock, the lesson was over. The other trainees and I stepped out into the cool, moistened air as we rode our bicycles home. I passed through the market, and saw that the rain had transformed the central paths into giant pools of mud. If you were not careful as to where you placed your foot, it would sink into one of these black, sticky, and oozing pits that were often filled with trash. When the sun set that evening, the sky cleared just enough to allow the red and yellow light to shine brilliantly as it reflected on the clouds. It lasted only half an hour, and after that it was dark. It was time to eat, and sleep until the sun got up again.

The rains came again the next day, as they always do.