Sunday in Kandal

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Note about this entry: Writing about my trip to Kandal was the most challenging piece of writing I have printed in my Blog thus far. This entry is still in its raw phase--eat up the details and the stories, but please understand that this entry is still a work in progress.

On Sunday I took a daytrip to a remote village in Kandal province. The mother of Channit, Chenneath, and Srey Mey invited me when she was at the school last, visiting with a smile and fresh papaya from her garden. She doesn't speak a word of English, so the children were light with the energy of translation as we passed plans back and forth.
At 8:30 am, I hopped on a moto with Banya as he was curious about the village as well. After a brief stop for a chocolate filled- croissant--which I gripped with my teeth as I situated my straddle on the moto--we were off for a day trip to 'the country.' On our way to the Cambodian countryside, we passed brothels disguised as massage parlors, billboards advertising cell phones or toothpaste, and women cutting ice with rusty saws. There was also a fair amount of land taken over by factories that make many of the clothes that you wear as you read this Blog entry--Gap, Columbia, Calvin Klein, and H+M, to name a few. The buildings were huge, gated, and white, marked by massive entryway arches with the name of the specific factory. The 'factory girls' come out for lunch with sun hats and riel (Khmer money) to buy cheap lunch in the bustle of the surrounding area. Banya and I made light banter about the wages, which seemed less like statistics to me in the open air.
Daytrips to 'the country' usually include packed lunches, the smell of sunscreen, and a lake where I am from. The Khmer version of a 'packed lunch' is a trip to the market. Channeath and Channit (sister and brother respectively) brought me from stall to stall, bargaining for oranges, mangosteen, fish, and pork that hung from wooden beams. The stall owners beamed with questions and exclamations about the mysterious white woman with the two native Khmer. "Where are you from?" "You are so beautiful!" (white skin is highly revered here) "How old are you? You are so young!" Channit told me that I could lie about my age if I wanted to. "You can make up any story here at market," he said.
Back on the road, the pavement soon turned to light brown dirt that was absorbed by the air around me. It covered my skin with a thin powder film that clung to my eyebrows, and I knew the village was close. We flew over speed bumps constructed out of packed dust, swerved to miss wandering cows, and beeped at children aimlessly riding bicycles in the middle of the road. The scenery was composed of rice fields, coconut trees, and roadside stands selling either clothing, fruit, or scrap metal. I made eye contact with the families and young Khmer men on the motos that passed at a more vigorous speed. They had an expression or a laugh that combined "a white girl in my town?" and "she is beautiful!"
After a thin wooden bridge and two sharp turns, the houses got more spread out, but I still felt a strong sense of community--lots of pedestrians and children playing by the side of the road. The house of Channit, Channeath, and Srey Mey is surrounded by mango trees, banana trees, chili trees, coconut trees, guava trees, and papaya trees--I had fruit from each of them throughout the day. The house itself is on stilts, a traditional Khmer house. Family photographs are displayed outside of the home, at the entrance. Before I entered, my 'camp on the lake mentality' kicked in. I imagined that the inside of the house would have a recliner, a case of old magazines, and whimsical sayings on the walls. The inside of this country house had none of these things. There were no furnishings, except for a small stand displaying hair bands and a small porcelain sculpture of a hen with baby chicks. A straw mat on the floor provided a space for rest at night and in the afternoon. There was a mirror on the side of the wall which I was using to inspect my dust covered face while simultaneously remarking on how "open the space ." Suddenly, the largest rat that I have ever seen in my entire life scurried by. I forced my scream into a laugh. It was time to go outside to cut the mango apples in the downstairs kitchen (in a small earthen shack attached to the base of the house).
Before lunch, Srey Mey and I took a walk to the local pagoda. On our way we stopped for 'ice cream.' I desperately wanted vanilla ice cream--sweet, soothing, comforting vanilla ice cream. The woman behind the ice cream stand laughed as I said 'Acun' (thank you), corrected me on the pronunciation, and handed my a ziplock back filled with ice and a brown lumpy gel on the bottom. "What is this?" I asked Srey Mey as she handed the woman 500 riel (about 12 cents). "We call it just...ice cream. It's good, just have some," Srey Mey assured me. I jabbed the ice with a bendable straw and slowly sipped some of the brown gel. The substance tasted like a sweet chemical, like a pack of diet sugar in gel form. I took a couple of polite sips and told Srey Mey that she should have the rest.
Srey Mey, 10 years-old, skipped alongside me as we walked into the gates of the pagoda, various pieces of patterned cloth hung from the trees, Khmer prayer flags, I assume. Inside the gates of the pagoda was a miniature village--children congregated around the back of a large truck while a surplus of elderly women sat and ate in circles inside of the pagoda itself. The colorful cloth hung limply from the ceiling in long strands. I shrine highlighted with gold color was set up at the front of the pagoda.
Srey Mey introduced me to her grandmother, a smiling, energetic woman with a grey-haired buzz cut and rotting teeth. The adjacent circle of women pulled me away, handing me 4 bowls of communal food at once. I opted for the bread and what seemed to be coconut rice bowls. Ten old women with shaved heads and rotted teeth then sat around me as I ate. The followed each one of my movements as they smiled. I felt like each gesture that I made was interpreted as a statement, a contribution to the circle for them. I spoke only to answer the woman next to me who repeated, "Madame ou Madamoiselle?" "Madamoiselle," I replied. I walked across the open pagoda to reunite with Srey Mey and her grandmother. We were followed out by 6 of my dining acquaintences, still smiling, still watching every move I made as if they were children watching a mechanical toy.
The pagoda village was filled with Cambodian hip-hop now, and the entire scene could have been a brilliant music video for someone who could orchestrate paid actors enough to recreate it. I took a picture of a smoking monk on our way out.
Srey Mey and I waited next to a house of naked children and gawking teenagers for her grandmother to catch up. "My mom tells me not to speak to the people in this house," Srey Mey says. "Why?" I asked, thinking that maybe there was a ghost story to follow. "Because they are mean to my grandmother. I don't speak to people that I don't like," Srey Mey answered. This is a perfect example of the Khmer's dislike for overt verbal confrontation. When I offered my Western "it's important to talk to people about our problems with them" advice to Srey Mey she gave a confused smile and changed the subject to... "More ice cream!" A man on a bicycle pulling a small trailer with multiple tiny metal cylindars drove buy. Srey Mey told her grandmother to buy us more 'ice cream' from the man. The man pulled two sticks with a cream-colored frozen substance attached. "What is this?" I asked Srey Mey. "Just eat. You'll love it. We call it ice cream," Srey Mey (again) replied in the tone a teenage mentor might use with a child. Although this type of ice cream tasted like sweetened dish water on a stick, I ate it all as Srey Mey's grandmother had treated us.
Once back at the stilted house, we sat on an outside table to eat lunch--a cauliflower-pork-green bean medley and a fish soup with banana leaves. We dipped our spoons into large bowls to serve ourselves. For dessert we eagerly ate papaya and mangosteen, experiencing two very distinct types of sweetness.
After lunch I layed on top of a straw mat on the same table which we ate at. Everyone else took a nap too. The nap, on top of a shaded table surrounded by mango trees and piles of hay, was the most fullfilling nap I have had in a long time. I woke up with ideas, rather then stretches.
Before leaving, we enjoyed coconuts which Channit had knocked off the backyard tree onto the hay below. His mother cut them open with a machete and poured the juice into glass mugs. I sat in a hammock, easily peeling the fresh coconut fruit from its shell. Although the conversation around me was in Khmer, I worked to narrate the content in my head. The various tones of voice being tossed around rang last-minute commentary about school and life away from home. Banya threw in bits of sarcasm to underline his knowledge of the childrens' lives away from home.
Getting on a moto with a full bladder is a bad idea so I went to the backyard and squatted in broad daylight under a guava tree. Channit tells me that his mother aspires to build a bathroom, but the fruit trees are too much work to focus on it now.
"Joom reap leir," I said, putting my hands in a prayer position. Channit, translating his mother's response, said a very genuine, "See you again very soon." My notion of a 'trip to the country' will never be the same again.

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