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Published: February 21st 2010
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Those of you who have read earlier posts here may remember that Steve and my friend Miriam and I spent a day in Bangkok with two monks last year, which was quite an experience. Yesterday Erin and I went off on an expedition and unexpectedly found ourselves with a young, enthusiastic monk as part of the deal.
We signed on for a half-day trip to Kompong Khleang, a stilted fishing village near the Tonle Sap Lake. After stopping to buy sticky rice cooked in bamboo, we stopped again along the road to get out and walk for a bit. The narrow red dirt road is raised far above the land on either side, which slopes sharply down to rice fields and water at this time of year. The houses are built tight to the road, with the front of the house level with the road, and the back supported high above the steeply sloping ground on high stilts. (In the wet season, the water laps at the floorboards when the lake rises 18-20 feet and triples its size.) The entire walk is a photographer’s dream - aside from some challenges with lighting - and Erin discovered that a
2 GB memory card will simply not be enough for her whole trip.
There are children everywhere in the village, as there are everywhere in this country where half the population is under 18. In various stages of dress and undress, in various groups or on their own, they sit on their steps or wander the road following the silly foreigners and waving emphatically, calling “hello, hello!” or sometimes “bye bye!” Their parents, if they are nearby, encourage the waving and posing for photos (which makes it difficult when you’re hoping for candid shots) and hold up the littlest ones for our viewing pleasure. Adults are more reticent to say hello themselves, but smiles are abundant. Chickens scratch under the houses, dogs lie on the rickety bamboo steps, and lush green rice fields and water fan out into the distance. (I’m practicing my present simple tense, it appears.)
There was an odd moment for me when I suddenly felt like I was walking through the zoo on a photo safari. As people sat on their porches or went about their business ands I took photo after photo, I felt like an obnoxious voyeur. I consoled myself
with the thought that they seemed to be enjoying the experience, and as Lori reminded me, we might be the most interesting thing that happens that day, so we were as much the object of interest as they were. And I certainly know that I am often the object of curiosity and pointing and laughter. (While it would offensive at home, it isn't at all here.)
After driving a bit further in the van, we walked through the local market, picking our way through vendors selling vegetables and fish spread on mats on the ground. We wound our way through the village and ended up at a wat near the riverbank, where a young monk met up with us. I have forgotten his name already, I am sorry to say; it may have been Silat. For the sake of narrative, let’s say it was.
Silat was grinning and eager to practice his English with us. Unfortunately, his English was very limited and almost entirely incomprehensible, but that didn’t dampen his enthusiasm a bit. He welcomed us with a beaming smile, and walked us to the riverbank to arrange a ride on his brother’s boat out into the floating
village on the lake. (As an example of his English, he repeatedly referred to the boat driver as his “sister” despite our gentle corrections. I guess his ability to remember English words is on par with my ability to remember Khmer names.)
We climbed on the long wooden boat and chose our seats, and our new monk friend climbed aboard with us. He never stopped smiling and making efforts to converse. (He also spent some time holding the microphone that tour guides often use to narrate the boat trip, making giddy comments about karaoke.) Thanks to my finely-tuned ability to laugh and nod in agreement and make noncommital noises, he didn’t seem to notice that I understood little of what he tried to say. His one great skill was pointing out every boat or riverbank shanty and counting the number of people visible. “Big house! One two three baby, one father, one mother!” “Boat, one two three four person!” In an effort to help with his vocabulary, I began pointing out and naming things myself. “There is a big house. That is a small house.” He would wholeheartedly agree, and repeat what I’d said. When we saw a
spirit house (a dollhouse-sized structure commonly found in front of Buddhist homes) he was delighted to say, “Look! Very small house. For the baby!” It was hilarious.
Over time, he became interested in my sunglasses. While the rules say that a Buddhist monk cannot touch a woman, nor even accept something directly from her hand, Silat did not appear to be a stickler for the rules. When he commented on my sunglasses and I held them out in front of me, he happily took them out of my hands and tried them on. He passed them next to his “sister” who also tried them, and then handed them to one of the young boys who were working on the boat. The boy happily put them on and kept them on for most of the boat ride. (Later when we left the village, he had them perched jauntily on top of his head. He seemed to think they were a gift, and I couldn’t bear to tell him otherwise.)
The sunglasses prompted Silat to reach under his robes to show me his glasses, which appeared to be over-the-counter reading glasses with no correction at all. But the
best part was that his rummaging around for them allowed me to finally see what monks wear under the robes - and they have pockets! Under the orange robe was a matching orange vest with multiple zippered pockets across his chest. I was jealous; what a great way to carry your stuff.
The next item of interest was my camera, which also ended up in Silat’s hands. He was a quick study and within a minute or two he understood the zoom feature and how to switch between taking photos and reviewing them on the screen. He was interested only in taking photos of Erin and me, extreme close-ups in particular, and then zooming in even further as he reviewed them. Again, great hilarity and delight ensued. I think the sight of a monk with a big old camera around his neck attracted more stares from the locals than we did.
After our morning adventures, we were ready for some down time in the afternoon, but we rallied in the evening to go to the local BBQ joint just outside Wat Damnak. We may have been the only Westerners in the place, which served a huge
variety of food. We had beef, squid, frog, spicy chicken, duck in red ant sauce, vegetables, and rice, of course. We passed on a few items, notably the “Boiled mixed inside of cow body” and “Fried cow gender with numgao.” (The menu further explained: "Numgao is the boiled lime with sugar syrup and keep long time in a the jar.") We knew from Jaz’s previous experience that the “cow gender” (uterus) was not so tasty. I’m sorry to say that all the photos I took of our food, including some excellent close-up shots of the ants in the red ant sauce and the splayed toes of the frogs, seem to have vanished from my camera. I guess we’ll have to go back so I can take those photos again. (Update: the photos have been found! I'll tack them on at the end.)
The other photos I took (and lost) last evening were of Jaz and her boyfriend, Sovann. I finally met Sovann after dinner, and first impressions are good. His English is particularly impressive, he has a sense of humor, and was willing to admit that he was very nervous about meeting me. There’s plenty more to write
about him, but I’ll get to that another time, when I have photos to accompany the story.
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You made my day
You made my day with this new blog. Sunday morning couldn't be better!! Love the pics and narrative and can't wait to get back there!!! I raise my coffee cup to you!!