Some years ago, I was granted the opportunity to have an internship with a cultural foundation in Fez, Morocco. When I was not working this organization, which was frequent during the end of the summer months, I took the liberty of taking trips to various sites around the country. On such occasion, I visited the Berber town of Azrou in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. During an extended weekend there, I went walking into the hills and mountains surrounding the town. One day after discovering a goat path that led to the top of a mountain, I stumbled a vista overlooking the countryside below me. At this moment, I felt the sensation that I was truly out there. The bold sense of adventure felt like I was standing on the edge of the world and looking down at all that I had traversed. I was miles away from the nearest human being, hundreds of miles from the crowded city of Fez, and thousands of miles from my own home in America. This was the farthest that I had ever gone. There was a certain sense of elation as I climbed down from that mountain that afternoon, but it was short lived. I dined alone later that night a little café near the town square, and the want of companionship filled me with such a melancholy temper that it nearly erased the accomplishments of the day. Groups of tourists sat near me, and I would have given anything to join their conversation.
This is not the first time such a thing has happened. The sensation of being out there and the subsequent reactions to it has repeated itself many times for me in my life. From the cold and snowy streets of Bratislava, to the heated grasslands of South Africa, to the rice fields of Cambodia, it has followed me everywhere I have traveled. Such an anecdote about my travels in Morocco could be applied to the present Peace Corps experience in Cambodia. There are certain days when I ride my bicycle out into the rice fields that surround the town to gain some moments of peace and quiet. I often pause in the middle of a long stretch of road, look at my surroundings and reflect on how far I have come from my former life.
A few months ago, I was finishing a thesis, taking final exams, hanging out in dorm rooms, and graduating from college. It seems so long ago, but time is such a relative thing in the mind of the beholder. I keep trying to imagine what Americans are doing at the present moment, but I cannot seem to really get a clear picture in my head. I think of my house, family, and the last time I took a red blooded American gal out on a date. The memories are as real as they can be, and I try to hold onto them as much as I can for fear of them slipping away from me.
I sometimes cannot even believe myself how exotic my life has become in this world of being out there. A day’s worth of routine involves watching dark young children climb coconut trees with machetes, seeing four to six people placed on the back of a motorcycle, and fearing the pinch of a mosquito bite as possibly the first step towards the horrible condition of either dengue fever or malaria. I watch families ride their huge, black water buffalos through deep canals to their floating houses, babies running around naked and urinating where they please, and mangy dogs fighting with each other to the amusement of onlookers. I know that if I am ill I have to hydrate myself by drinking as much coconut juice as possible, and that if I stop by the side of the road I cannot go too far into the bush because I might step on a land mine. I have the best excuses for telling someone that I have no interest in marrying a Khmer girl, and that if I leave my house on a Cambodian holiday I might run into packs of drunken Cambodian men. I could go on, but the list goes on and on. If I spend too much thinking about it I might go stark raving mad, and I pray that that will not happen. Dealing with it, I suppose, is a peculiar consequence of being out there.
But where does this feeling come from? There are several factors that contribute to this. The geographic location of where I am to spend almost two years of my life has to do with this greatly. If you follow the road from Siem Reap some sixteen kilometers northeast and go north for another thirty-four kilometers, you will find the district of Anchor. The dirt road leading there is lined with canals that irrigate the surrounding rice fields, and it travels more or less in a straight line that creates something resembling an isthmus. Patches of jungle appear along the road, but it is mostly an agricultural scene that rises up before you. Dark brown children submerged up to their necks in water can be seen fishing with nets in the canals that run alongside the roads. Wooden houses built on stilts and with straw roofs appear sporadically by themselves or in hamlets on either side your vehicle. At last, in the middle of a green ocean lies the island of Anchor. A paved road runs through it, and small one or two story houses are built on either side of this main street. About a hundred meters beyond the road on either side, the rice fields begin again. There is nothing like walking or biking in any direction away from the town, and seeing that there is nothing but rice fields in every direction. The nearest volunteer is more than thirty kilometers away.
Accompanied by this feeling of geographical isolation are the feelings of loneliness due to cultural and linguistic separation. For the latter, the language barrier can be quite a crushing weight upon the whole experience of being in Cambodia. I know enough Khmer to communicate requests and ideas in a very simple conversation format, and it has quickly improved during the short time that I have been here. I make it a point to study it every day because I believe that it is necessary for my survival in the long-term. However, the full and in depth conversations that I used to have with the other volunteers are simply not there anymore. I do appreciate the desire to practice English when people approach me in order to practice their English, but it really gets old after a while when you have to answer the same questions over and over again. When speaking to you, they usually have this expression on their face as if they are an actor trying to remember the lines of a script they memorized years ago. The people I am growing closest to are those who can speak one of the two languages that I know well. It is that simple.
When school is not in session, boredom can come easily. Depression follows quickly in its wake. I am fortunate that I came into the Peace Corps with an already honed sense of what I can do to keep myself active. For me, I write both these blog posts and several stories of fiction, read French novels, practice the violin, and study both written and oral Khmer. Reading and writing Khmer is about as hard as trying to decipher hieroglyphics having just discovered the Rosetta stone. I have recently found a person willing to tutor me in Khmer in exchange for lessons in English, which is very fortunate. I hope that after some time I will be able to overcome the handicap of not being read in this country.
I know that I can make this situation work, but it is going to take some time and incredible amount of patience that I am going to have to develop over the years. Peace Corps was never advertised as something that was easily doable, but you do not fully realize it until you get out here. Out there. I hope that in writing these things down and posting them on the internet for all the world to see will help explain this feeling, and what I have been through in my time here. It is my wish that someone who reads this will better understand what I have been through, and not look at me as a foreign creature.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Friday, October 3, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Music Session at the Wat
This is my friend Stephanie and I during our music education session at the Wat (Buddhist temple in Cambodia). The kids got a kick out of the violin.
Pchum Ben
As I am writing this, the country of Cambodia is celebrating the festival of Pchum Ben. The celebration begins with Kan Ben on the first day of Potrbotr, the lunar month that stretches from late September to early October, and ends on the day of Pchum Ben. During this time, Cambodians go to the pagoda, or Wat in Khmer, to offer gifts to the spirit forms of their deceased ancestors. Ly Daravuth offers this description:
Daravuth’s stated intention in this paragraph is not to provide an anthropological description of Pchum Ben, but rather to describe a ritual that has many different variations. To some degree, I can elaborate on this description, myself having been to the Pchum Ben ceremonies in Kampong several times. In gathering some more detailed background on Pchum Ben over the past few days, there are some key points that one must understand before discussing the actual ceremony. To begin with, the reason why this ceremony takes place during the early hours of the morning is very specific. It is a widely held belief that spirits can only be released from the afterlife during the early morning hours before the sun rises. By giving them food, one honors them and ensures that they will eventually leave the afterlife to continue in the cycle of reincarnation. It is also important to remember that when one gives the offerings, it is not simply for your own ancestors. Rather, you offer on the behalf of the community. The idea of collectivity is stressed in this ritual, as nearly everyone from the villages participates.
An example of this unifying element in the ceremony can be found in a simple anecdote that happened some nights ago. In helping my family prepare the bey bun used in the ceremony, I accidentally rolled a ball of rice that was too large. Both my older and younger host sister criticized me for doing this, and I retorted by saying, “Kroo ah sah slaap khym jiang klien kroo ah sah neak” (My dead ancestors are simply hungrier than yours). The two sisters laughed, but the eldest one reminded me politely that the bey bun feeds everyone’s ancestors, and not simply my own.
The Pchum Ben Ceremony
On Friday, September 25th, I awoke at three fifteen in the morning. Moving around my room and house as not to disturb the still and silent sleeping members of the family, I departed quietly at nearly a quarter to four. Using a small lamp to find my way in the dark, I rode on my bicycle to the house of a friend and fellow volunteer. I met his host family there, as well as himself and three other American friends. We rode on our bicycles to a pagoda located directly off the national road, and removed our helmets as sign of respect as we entered the grounds of the temple. It is generally cool during these morning hours, and the temperature felt comfortable as we rode through the dark along the national road.
After parking our bicycles outside the vahira of the pagoda, we removed our shoes and sat on the rice mats at some distance from the altar. It is custom when entering the vahira to kneel, and bow your head three times with both your hands touching the floor. The Chinese describe this movement as the cow tow, but I am not exactly sure if the Cambodians have one that is its equivalent. After performing this action, we were quickly led to the altar itself to offer burning bundles of incense. Several large golden Buddhas stood before us, including one that held a magnificently glowing halo behind its head. After placing the incense in an earthenware pot before the altar, we sat down again and held our hands together in prayer position. The amount of burning incense near the altar that the smoke caused me to cough several times before I was able to find some fresh air.
The monks chanted for some time after that. I cannot say for how long, but I was relieved when they stopped. For someone who is not accustomed to sitting on straw mats for most of their lives, the introduction to this oriental posture can be quite painful. When sitting on the floor before the Buddha, the custom is to sit with your legs folded so that both of them are pointed in the same direction. Try this for a moment: Sit on the floor with your legs crossed in what westerners would call “Indian style.” Now take your left leg and place it firmly against your right. The left leg should be sticking out a bit. You must remember that you cannot use your right arm for balance, for it is currently occupied in prayer position. Some people find it easy, but I find it quite painful. During the second ceremony of this kind that I attended, my host brother-in-law showed me a way of propping up one of my legs that made the posture less painful.
In concluding the ceremony, the monks altered the regular, single tone pitch of their voices several times in a way that seemed to infer a question. While the words were not familiar, the sound of them almost resembled a, “Ahnn?” The response to this by the congregation was a simple, “Ahhnn.” After three repetitions of this, the people stood up and moved outside. The host family of my friend gave us plates of ball-shaped sticky rice (bey bun) that had a single candle in the middle of them, as well as bottles of water and incense. We lit the candle as to see what we were doing in the dark, and proceeded to move around the vahira. Eight stations were set up, and the congregation lined up to toss the bey bun and pour the water into a plastic bucket at each one until all of rice they had was spent. Only the candles illuminated the people who held them, and the people moved in a train of lights around the vahira several times. After this, the congregation dispersed or went back inside the vahira. As we bicycled home, the sun came up on our right. In a beautiful display of red and blue against the black profile of the coconut trees, it rose until we could clearly see the road in front of us.
Much of this experience was repeated exactly during the second time that I participated in this ceremony, with the exception of a few minor details. When the moment came to leave the vahira and go around to the different stations, we had to walk barefoot. In addition to throwing the rice, my host family and I threw splices of bananas as well. I was surprised by how similar it was, despite the fact that we were at a different Wat.
It is interesting to find that the festival is not limited to just these morning services. I discovered this when I would go to the Wat during the day for language or technical sessions of training. For the latter, one assignment required the trainees and I to plan and develop a community activity in Kampong. Since the Wat is a public place where many families come frequently during the Pchum Ben festival, four of us asked the head monk to hold a music presentation for the children during one of festival days of Kan Ben. The session was a success, and afterward we were invited to participate in the midday ritual in the vahira.
On most days of the festival around lunchtime, rice and other dishes of food are prepared by a particular family and are offered to the monks. One station is set up whereby one can place the rice eaten by the monks into three silver pots. The monks themselves sit in a line that runs perpendicular to the altar, and chant while bowls of food and sticky white rice are placed before them. When they are finished chanting, they eat some of the food before giving the rest to the congregation. It is then, and only then that it is permissible to begin eating.
During the actual Pchum Ben day celebration, families gather together from all over the country to be together at the pagoda in order to honor their dead. A small contingent of my host family’s relatives came up from Phnom Penh during the morning, and we went to the Wat together. Almost immediately after we arrived, we went to visit my host father’s father at his grave some distance from the Wat. People who are Chinese-Cambodian in this country typically bury their dead, whereas most Cambodians have the body cremated; therefore, the ceremony that I witnessed at this site is not something that one sees typically in Cambodia. When we arrived, a small straw mat was laid out. Two monks sat before us with their backs to the grave, and chanted while we sat and held our hands in prayer position. After some time, my host father poured water onto the ground in what must have been some kind of offering. The chanting stopped, and we packed up to leave. We then formed into a line with at least two hundred people that formed a human circle around the vahira. Nineteen monks proceeded to go around this ring and collect rice and money from everyone. They moved slowly, and I could feel the sun beating down upon my face while I waited. One family decided to introduce their infant daughter to me, but she cried hysterically in fright when I greeted her in Khmer. The monks finally came to us, and we gave them the rice we held in our porcelain bowls. After this, we left to go back to the house, where we ate a large meal of rice, curried pork, and a fish soup. In the afternoon, I bid goodbye to the family and went to friend’s house to play cards and drink coffee.
A Pchum Ben For Pol Pot
Ly Daravuth also writes something interesting having to deal with the recent nature of Cambodian history. In his work on reconciliation and the arts in Cambodia, he mentions that the era of the Khmer Rouge is something that present and future generations of Cambodians will have to deal with. From a religious perspective, the tragedy of this period presents a rather unique problem. Those who died during the period of genocide, whether they were members of the Khmer Rouge themselves or the victims of their tyranny, have “their souls condemned to wander, damned to never reincarnate, unless acknowledged in a proper ceremony” (Daravuth, 2). Daravuth expresses the desire to have a special Pchum Ben to acknowledge these people, but admits that this has simply not happened yet.
To be frank, it is easy to see why. I have only been in this country a little over two months, but in the many interactions I have had with Cambodians I can see a desire of not wanting to remember this period of history. A perfect example of this is the fact that many leaders of Cambodia’s present government are former leaders of the Khmer Rouge themselves. The people do not want to dwell on this horrible episode of their history, and would rather turn almost a blind eye to it. The conversations I have had about the 1975 to 1979 Khmer Rouge era, which most Cambodians refer to as simply Pol Pot, have been far and few between. Even when they do happen, I have a feeling that they witnessed a few things that they have long since buried in a private corner of their memory. Knowing this, it is not a far stretch to understand why a special Pchum Ben ceremony will probably not happen.
As one older man told me in French. “Pendant la génocide de Pol Pot, j’étais un homme ignorant. Maintenant, je veux garder cette ignorance.” (During the time of Pol Pot, I was ignorant man. Now, I want to keep this ignorance.)
During Pchum Ben, very early in the mornings, people cook rice and, in the pal of their hand, form rice balls called bey bun. Before dawn, they bring these bey bun, along with other offerings to the pagoda’s main building (the vihira) to convene the souls of the deceased. At a certain point during the ceremony, the participants circle the vahira three times scattering the bey bun to the ground. After the procession, some of the people return inside and join the monks chanting. (Ly Daravuth, Notes On Pchum Ben, Boston: Brandeis University, 2005.)
Daravuth’s stated intention in this paragraph is not to provide an anthropological description of Pchum Ben, but rather to describe a ritual that has many different variations. To some degree, I can elaborate on this description, myself having been to the Pchum Ben ceremonies in Kampong several times. In gathering some more detailed background on Pchum Ben over the past few days, there are some key points that one must understand before discussing the actual ceremony. To begin with, the reason why this ceremony takes place during the early hours of the morning is very specific. It is a widely held belief that spirits can only be released from the afterlife during the early morning hours before the sun rises. By giving them food, one honors them and ensures that they will eventually leave the afterlife to continue in the cycle of reincarnation. It is also important to remember that when one gives the offerings, it is not simply for your own ancestors. Rather, you offer on the behalf of the community. The idea of collectivity is stressed in this ritual, as nearly everyone from the villages participates.
An example of this unifying element in the ceremony can be found in a simple anecdote that happened some nights ago. In helping my family prepare the bey bun used in the ceremony, I accidentally rolled a ball of rice that was too large. Both my older and younger host sister criticized me for doing this, and I retorted by saying, “Kroo ah sah slaap khym jiang klien kroo ah sah neak” (My dead ancestors are simply hungrier than yours). The two sisters laughed, but the eldest one reminded me politely that the bey bun feeds everyone’s ancestors, and not simply my own.
The Pchum Ben Ceremony
On Friday, September 25th, I awoke at three fifteen in the morning. Moving around my room and house as not to disturb the still and silent sleeping members of the family, I departed quietly at nearly a quarter to four. Using a small lamp to find my way in the dark, I rode on my bicycle to the house of a friend and fellow volunteer. I met his host family there, as well as himself and three other American friends. We rode on our bicycles to a pagoda located directly off the national road, and removed our helmets as sign of respect as we entered the grounds of the temple. It is generally cool during these morning hours, and the temperature felt comfortable as we rode through the dark along the national road.
After parking our bicycles outside the vahira of the pagoda, we removed our shoes and sat on the rice mats at some distance from the altar. It is custom when entering the vahira to kneel, and bow your head three times with both your hands touching the floor. The Chinese describe this movement as the cow tow, but I am not exactly sure if the Cambodians have one that is its equivalent. After performing this action, we were quickly led to the altar itself to offer burning bundles of incense. Several large golden Buddhas stood before us, including one that held a magnificently glowing halo behind its head. After placing the incense in an earthenware pot before the altar, we sat down again and held our hands together in prayer position. The amount of burning incense near the altar that the smoke caused me to cough several times before I was able to find some fresh air.
The monks chanted for some time after that. I cannot say for how long, but I was relieved when they stopped. For someone who is not accustomed to sitting on straw mats for most of their lives, the introduction to this oriental posture can be quite painful. When sitting on the floor before the Buddha, the custom is to sit with your legs folded so that both of them are pointed in the same direction. Try this for a moment: Sit on the floor with your legs crossed in what westerners would call “Indian style.” Now take your left leg and place it firmly against your right. The left leg should be sticking out a bit. You must remember that you cannot use your right arm for balance, for it is currently occupied in prayer position. Some people find it easy, but I find it quite painful. During the second ceremony of this kind that I attended, my host brother-in-law showed me a way of propping up one of my legs that made the posture less painful.
In concluding the ceremony, the monks altered the regular, single tone pitch of their voices several times in a way that seemed to infer a question. While the words were not familiar, the sound of them almost resembled a, “Ahnn?” The response to this by the congregation was a simple, “Ahhnn.” After three repetitions of this, the people stood up and moved outside. The host family of my friend gave us plates of ball-shaped sticky rice (bey bun) that had a single candle in the middle of them, as well as bottles of water and incense. We lit the candle as to see what we were doing in the dark, and proceeded to move around the vahira. Eight stations were set up, and the congregation lined up to toss the bey bun and pour the water into a plastic bucket at each one until all of rice they had was spent. Only the candles illuminated the people who held them, and the people moved in a train of lights around the vahira several times. After this, the congregation dispersed or went back inside the vahira. As we bicycled home, the sun came up on our right. In a beautiful display of red and blue against the black profile of the coconut trees, it rose until we could clearly see the road in front of us.
Much of this experience was repeated exactly during the second time that I participated in this ceremony, with the exception of a few minor details. When the moment came to leave the vahira and go around to the different stations, we had to walk barefoot. In addition to throwing the rice, my host family and I threw splices of bananas as well. I was surprised by how similar it was, despite the fact that we were at a different Wat.
It is interesting to find that the festival is not limited to just these morning services. I discovered this when I would go to the Wat during the day for language or technical sessions of training. For the latter, one assignment required the trainees and I to plan and develop a community activity in Kampong. Since the Wat is a public place where many families come frequently during the Pchum Ben festival, four of us asked the head monk to hold a music presentation for the children during one of festival days of Kan Ben. The session was a success, and afterward we were invited to participate in the midday ritual in the vahira.
On most days of the festival around lunchtime, rice and other dishes of food are prepared by a particular family and are offered to the monks. One station is set up whereby one can place the rice eaten by the monks into three silver pots. The monks themselves sit in a line that runs perpendicular to the altar, and chant while bowls of food and sticky white rice are placed before them. When they are finished chanting, they eat some of the food before giving the rest to the congregation. It is then, and only then that it is permissible to begin eating.
During the actual Pchum Ben day celebration, families gather together from all over the country to be together at the pagoda in order to honor their dead. A small contingent of my host family’s relatives came up from Phnom Penh during the morning, and we went to the Wat together. Almost immediately after we arrived, we went to visit my host father’s father at his grave some distance from the Wat. People who are Chinese-Cambodian in this country typically bury their dead, whereas most Cambodians have the body cremated; therefore, the ceremony that I witnessed at this site is not something that one sees typically in Cambodia. When we arrived, a small straw mat was laid out. Two monks sat before us with their backs to the grave, and chanted while we sat and held our hands in prayer position. After some time, my host father poured water onto the ground in what must have been some kind of offering. The chanting stopped, and we packed up to leave. We then formed into a line with at least two hundred people that formed a human circle around the vahira. Nineteen monks proceeded to go around this ring and collect rice and money from everyone. They moved slowly, and I could feel the sun beating down upon my face while I waited. One family decided to introduce their infant daughter to me, but she cried hysterically in fright when I greeted her in Khmer. The monks finally came to us, and we gave them the rice we held in our porcelain bowls. After this, we left to go back to the house, where we ate a large meal of rice, curried pork, and a fish soup. In the afternoon, I bid goodbye to the family and went to friend’s house to play cards and drink coffee.
A Pchum Ben For Pol Pot
Ly Daravuth also writes something interesting having to deal with the recent nature of Cambodian history. In his work on reconciliation and the arts in Cambodia, he mentions that the era of the Khmer Rouge is something that present and future generations of Cambodians will have to deal with. From a religious perspective, the tragedy of this period presents a rather unique problem. Those who died during the period of genocide, whether they were members of the Khmer Rouge themselves or the victims of their tyranny, have “their souls condemned to wander, damned to never reincarnate, unless acknowledged in a proper ceremony” (Daravuth, 2). Daravuth expresses the desire to have a special Pchum Ben to acknowledge these people, but admits that this has simply not happened yet.
To be frank, it is easy to see why. I have only been in this country a little over two months, but in the many interactions I have had with Cambodians I can see a desire of not wanting to remember this period of history. A perfect example of this is the fact that many leaders of Cambodia’s present government are former leaders of the Khmer Rouge themselves. The people do not want to dwell on this horrible episode of their history, and would rather turn almost a blind eye to it. The conversations I have had about the 1975 to 1979 Khmer Rouge era, which most Cambodians refer to as simply Pol Pot, have been far and few between. Even when they do happen, I have a feeling that they witnessed a few things that they have long since buried in a private corner of their memory. Knowing this, it is not a far stretch to understand why a special Pchum Ben ceremony will probably not happen.
As one older man told me in French. “Pendant la génocide de Pol Pot, j’étais un homme ignorant. Maintenant, je veux garder cette ignorance.” (During the time of Pol Pot, I was ignorant man. Now, I want to keep this ignorance.)
The Market
Of all the things in Cambodia that I could choose to not like, it is the market that would top the list. I even dislike the fact that I cannot bring myself to enjoy visiting the place. For some, the proclivity for navigating among prices and sellers here is among their many attributes. I, however, cannot stand to be in there for very long. This is so despite the fact that I understand fully and completely that frequent trips to the market are among the essential parts of life in Cambodia. I will try my best to explain why.
The house where I live is not far from the market in Kampong. If you turn left from the front doorway onto the dirt road, you will reach the entrance in about thirty or forty meters. The main complex of the market is made up of about a hundred different stalls that are all under the protection of corrugated steel roofs. Sunlight is allowed to shine on the different paths that run through it, but it is particularly dark in some places. If you walk into the market from the national road, you can see a sort of courtyard set up that has a very large trash pile in the middle. From here, you can walk to different sections of stalls that sell anything from various food products, to clot, dresses, hardware, books, and medical supplies. When it rains, the water turns the dirt into a kind of black and soupy mud that will swallow your foot whole if you are not careful where you step. It is malodorous as well.
I often walk through the market, and almost notice immediately the dark brown faces that stare at you from behind their merchandise. They always have the same look on their faces. They are curious, I know, and I beginning to notice it less and less. But they always stare.
While some sections of the market are generally tolerable, there is one in particular that is unavoidable and disagreeable to my senses. It is section that deals in food. The meat that you find is always warm and putrid smelling. Every time when I walk into this place, I always see some display of butchery done to fish, turtles, dogs, cows, and most commonly pigs. Pork is usually less expensive than beef in this country, and its consumption is very popular. The market is usually crowded with dead pigs. I have even seen one that was carved in half and carried on the rear seat of a motorcycle.
Since our house is not far from the market, I can hear them being slaughtered sometimes when I wake up in the morning. They scream with a high-pitched squeal that is almost human. I cover my head with a pillow and wait as they are silenced one by one. When I visit the market and see them on display, I cannot help but feel a chill run up the back of my spine when my memory replays the audio of their last breath. Despite even this, I still eat their meat because I need the protein to survive. Going vegetarian in this country, although something of an appeal at this point, does not sound like a viable option.
I am sure that my dislike of the market will reside if given some time. For now, however, it is still one of the many things that I am struggling with.
The house where I live is not far from the market in Kampong. If you turn left from the front doorway onto the dirt road, you will reach the entrance in about thirty or forty meters. The main complex of the market is made up of about a hundred different stalls that are all under the protection of corrugated steel roofs. Sunlight is allowed to shine on the different paths that run through it, but it is particularly dark in some places. If you walk into the market from the national road, you can see a sort of courtyard set up that has a very large trash pile in the middle. From here, you can walk to different sections of stalls that sell anything from various food products, to clot, dresses, hardware, books, and medical supplies. When it rains, the water turns the dirt into a kind of black and soupy mud that will swallow your foot whole if you are not careful where you step. It is malodorous as well.
I often walk through the market, and almost notice immediately the dark brown faces that stare at you from behind their merchandise. They always have the same look on their faces. They are curious, I know, and I beginning to notice it less and less. But they always stare.
While some sections of the market are generally tolerable, there is one in particular that is unavoidable and disagreeable to my senses. It is section that deals in food. The meat that you find is always warm and putrid smelling. Every time when I walk into this place, I always see some display of butchery done to fish, turtles, dogs, cows, and most commonly pigs. Pork is usually less expensive than beef in this country, and its consumption is very popular. The market is usually crowded with dead pigs. I have even seen one that was carved in half and carried on the rear seat of a motorcycle.
Since our house is not far from the market, I can hear them being slaughtered sometimes when I wake up in the morning. They scream with a high-pitched squeal that is almost human. I cover my head with a pillow and wait as they are silenced one by one. When I visit the market and see them on display, I cannot help but feel a chill run up the back of my spine when my memory replays the audio of their last breath. Despite even this, I still eat their meat because I need the protein to survive. Going vegetarian in this country, although something of an appeal at this point, does not sound like a viable option.
I am sure that my dislike of the market will reside if given some time. For now, however, it is still one of the many things that I am struggling with.
Monday, September 22, 2008
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.
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.
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