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TRAVEL BLOG ENTRY
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The farmer narrows his eyes as he thinks about the price we have offered while he vents his anger by poking the pile of animal feces and hay that is burned night and day to keep the mosquitoes away with a stick. He sits on his haunches, wearing nothing but a pair of old blue shorts to cover his skinny brown legs. His feet are thick soled as a result of never wearing shoes in his fields and a cigarette hangs out of his mouth as he puffs away, occasionally squinting his eyes at the sun. All he needs is a cowboy hat to look like a Cambodian Clint Eastwood. I try to smile, though it's hard when he has made this venture much more difficult than necessary- everything was fine until he started drinking his homemade rice wine. Now, he wants to cut out some of the land and charge more- to him, our white skin looks like light green paper with "In God We Trust" written across it.
We came here with our friend Baht, who has inspired my husband and I with his passion for the children at the orphanage we volunteer at. The fact that he is father to his own poor children as well as two orphans that were abandoned by their mothers made us decide to pay it forward and help this one family have a future- others have done similar unexpected things for us and something about Baht's smiling face and nervous giggle endeared him to us instantly. This is a happy story, though we have heard many sad ones here in Cambodia, and today is the big day- we had the money in our pockets and the field picked out.
To get here, my husband, Baht, and I had taken a motorbike from the sleepy town of Battambang to the countryside, the scene gradually changing as we drove through bumpy, muddy roads, our hair blowing in the wind, past the kind of beautiful modern village scenes you can only find in National Geographic. Gone were the big tour buses and camera toting spectators that had assaulted us in other countries in Asia. Instead, we were the only foreigners in the area and were greeted with open curiosity by everyone we passed. Naked children, their skin the color of hot cocoa, ran down the road calling out "Hello!"and waving their little hands vigorously. More often than not, each person smiled widely at me when our eyes connected and my tentative greetings were always returned with welcoming kindness. My heart filled with elation, I couldn't help but grin to myself for the whole ride to the farm, for I had finally discovered a country where I could be a traveller, not a tourist!
But now, here we are, sitting outside the humble straw and wood house built on stilts, the common architecture of the countryside, watching the chickens and cats scamper around the yard while we glance at one another in frustration. The sun is high in the sky, but the gray clouds are gathering- it's the rainy season and for once I want it to pour so it can dispel the heat, which has become oppressive now that the wind seems to have gone on vacation. I try to discreetly wipe the kiddie pool of sweat that has formed on my upper lip as I observe the old farmer and our friend measure out the field once more with a thin wooden stick approximately a meter long. They speak rapidly to one another in Khmer, but I don't need to understand the language to know that the farmer is dissatisfied.
A boy strolls by on the road, pulling a bony cow by a thin rope tied to the animal. He stares at us curiously- barangs (foreigners) are a strange sight in the countryside of Cambodia. We shade our eyes from the solar glare and smile and wave at the boy, who has called out a shy greeting. His traditional red and white checkered scarf is wrapped around his waist and he walks on the hard dry earth with bare feet. Without shoes it will be much easier to wade through the puddles and mud that the rain will make of the "road." Someone is across the road working on their rice field, a scarf wrapped around a straw hat for extra protection from the intense heat of the sun. She looks like a moving picnic table as her head bobs up and down in the bright green rice plants, whose delicate stalks take up most rural land. For a second, I think I'm in the Midwest until I notice the palm trees in the adjacent fields and the tropical fruits hanging from other trees. An old woman rides by on a creaky bicycle, her scarf wrapped like a turban. I have seen many people like her in the countryside, their bikes laden with enormous loads of produce to sell at the market. It is not uncommon to see a motorbike whiz by with a cage containing two large pigs on their way to be slaughtered.
"I think we should come back tomorrow when his wife gets home. He thinks he's so powerful now that he has been drinking the rice wine all morning," Baht's nervous chuckle escapes from his lips and he rubs his hand through his thick black hair, averting his brown eyes that are filled with frustration and disappointment. All that needs to be done is hand over the agreed upon sum and Baht's life and that of his family will be changed forever! But Baht doesn't seem to be very close to putting his fingerprint on the hand written agreement he had hoped to write out this morning with the farmer. We have to agree that nothing more can be done and so we reluctantly get back on the bike and return to the city, the farmer waving at us disinterestedly before going back to making the fishing poles he uses to catch small fish near his farm.
Later that night, Savoun, another Khmer friend we have made in the city, invites us to a nearby dance hall where we can see traditional Khmer dancing. We enthusiastically take him up on his offer and so we jump on yet another motorbike, whizzing past brightly lit food stalls and shacks with delicious smells wafting out of them. We arrive at the hall, which is another world entirely. Gone are the laboring locals and people sleeping in hammocks next to their food stands- the night has transformed everyone into into dance maniacs! The live music is deafening and the singers wail into the mikes while people pack the dance floor. We sit at a table and one of the "beer girls" places frosted glasses next to each of us. It's so dark that I don't realize I will be imbibing my beer the Khmer way- with ice- until I take my first sip. It's delicious and I sit back to watch the colorful lights play on the happy faces on the dance floor. Various people mount the stage to sing songs- I can't be sure if it's a grand version of Karaoke or there are just a lot of performers. The singers always jump back onto the dance floor when they have finished their piece.
My friend gestures to us to join him on the dance floor, but I protest. We're the only foreigners and I don't feel like making a spectacle of myself. But after further insistence, I reluctantly agree. To my dismay, I realize that everyone on the floor is doing the same dance, which of course I don't know! The floor is full of young and old Khmers doing a simple step that moves the entire mass of waving arms and shifting legs in a circle. I already feel like I'm causing a traffic jam as I struggle to keep up with the crowd, stick to the beat, and do the appropriate steps. An older Khmer man who speaks English insists on being our teacher and patiently guides and corrects us as we weave through and around the circle. When I have finally mastered the steps, he smiles enthusiastically and an old lady gives me a wide grin and a thumbs up as she shimmies past. I find that I love dancing with Khmers because they are totally un-selfconscious and soldier on through each dance as one big community spanning every adult age group. The music changes and we join the dancers in what can only be called the twist. I feel like I have gone back in time and am glad I can have so much fun without going to an expensive Western club to see and be seen. Exhausted, we leave the club many hours later, speeding through the empty streets. I throw my head back and gaze at the bright stars overhead- the air cools my sweaty body and I feel refreshed by the time we return to our hotel, where our friend also works. He invites us to visit his village the following weekend so that we can meet his family and see more of the countryside. His invitation reminds me of the struggle to get Baht his field and I go to bed, worrying that we will not be able to get him the field before our Cambodian visa expires.
The nest day, Baht arrives at our hotel and informs us enthusiastically that his wife and mother in law had already been at the field all morning. The women and the farmer's wife had worked hard to keep the rice wine out of sight and a deal was on the horizon. We arrived at the field, but my husband and I stayed out of sight so that the farmer wouldn't change his mind. We squatted down in the dusty road, hidden from view behind a clump of bushes. We could hear the farmer's voice and eased away down the road to stand closer to a neighboring home. The people there looked at us curiously- we must have looked rather strange hiding like spies on some random road in the countryside. Finally, Baht's mother in law rushed down the road and gestured to us wildly...the money had been given to the farmer, the space agreed on, and the contract written up! We ran to the house just in time to see Baht and the old man put their thumbs on a purple ink pad and place them side by side on the lined sheet of paper. Baht and his young wife looked up at us, their faces reflecting the joy that was in our own.
The farmer dispelled with his gruffness and insisted on having his picture taken with Baht. He posed with his chest puffed out and his hands on his hips, the smoke from the cigarette in his mouth wafting up to the hazy sky, a king in his kingdom. I showed him the picture on the camera's small screen and he crowed in delight, insisting we give him our phone number and address so he could visit us in America. Satisfied that he could contact us for this impossible visit, the farmer turned to Baht to announce that Baht needed to go right away to buy the farmer a case of beer so that they could all celebrate. I looked at their stained thumbs to remind myself that drunkenness could not take the farm away and we all laughed, happy that the tension had been dispelled. The farmer was already planning to buy a motorbike for his son, who wanted to be a taxi driver, with the money. All too soon, it was time to leave. We had to get back to town in order to help Baht teach his English class at the orphanage. The farmer and his wife waved as we drove away, all smiles and kindness. I felt a little sad, knowing that it will be years before I get to see Baht's farm again, with the house and little stand he wants to build on it. But then I remind myself that I will be back because Baht has reminded us that we are family now.
Instead of being just another barang passing through, I now have family and friends in this beautiful country. I have the memories of eating dinner with Baht and his children in his home made of wood and corrugated tin. I have pictures of eating grilled frogs at Sovaun's village home while my husband drew a tic tac toe game in the dirt with a stick, daring the children to play. I can hear Baht's father's stories of the Khmer Rouge in my head and can picture us sitting on the floor in their apartment in Phenom Phen. Most people come to Cambodia to see Angkor Wat and the Khmer Rouge Killing Fields.
While the monument to culture and civilization that is Angkor Wat is astounding and the modern history of its people horrifying and facinating, the heart of Cambodia lies in its countryside. It can be found in the small villages where people live in wooden homes on stilts, surrounded by trees laden with bananas and jack fruits. It can be seen in the generosity of the inhabitants of these homes, who love to share what little they have in order to welcome a guest. And finally, it can be seen in the eyes and smiles of the children, who are the future of this beautiful and enduring nation.
previous travel blog entryComments or Questions for the Author
In Wanderland says:
I will fix it asap, but I'm in Cambodia right now and we have computer issues..thanks for reading, though! :)
Deronda says:
How bout having photos orientation correct.