Fishing boats along the flooded Mekong River in Kampong Cham, Cambodia. Photo by Sybil Grieb
17th November, 2011
By SYBIL GRIEB
Special to the Palisadian-Post
My father once put a paper bag over his head and rode his tricycle down a set of stairs. He was four at the time, and he knocked out all his front teeth. I was young when he told me this story, and though I don't dare to remember what I was doing that inspired him to tell it, I do remember that upon on hearing it I promptly fell over in the grass, laughing.
I am now sitting on a bus in Cambodia. The air conditioning broke on the first bus, so we switched, and this second bus smells like burning rubber, but it is cooler inside and the Khmer music videos play and we continue on our way. The flower garlands along the front of the bus sway as we hit rocks and potholes the size of bathtubs along the intermittently paved road to Kampong Cham.
I look out the dusty windows trying to memorize every detail along this beautiful and unfamiliar terrain. I am the only Western person on this bus. 'Barang, barang,' they all said, smiling as I got on. It means foreigner. And I will likely not see another foreigner or meet anyone fluent in English for days.
It is Pchum Ben, the ancestors' festival celebrated by Cambodian Buddhists, and I am traveling with a new friend, Kunthea, to her province. The ride takes about three hours from the capital city of Phnom Penh, where we both now live. When we stop and get out to stretch our legs, vendors are selling some brown cooked snacks by the kilogram along the side of the road. Kunthea picks one up from a red plastic bucket and asks me, 'What is this in English?' 'Cockroach,' I reply, as I open my bag, take out my Snickers bar and start chewing. I have lived in Asia long enough to be both prepared and unfazed. The next town we pass is known for its delicious spiders.
Occasionally we stop to let people off, and each time, the driver gets out to check something. At one stop he says something and a few men get off to check with him. Kunthea follows and after a few minutes, they all return and we are on our way again.
'What is he doing?' I ask. 'There is a problem with the'how do I tell you in English'the thing that makes us stop.' Awesome, it's our brakes burning. And I imagine trying to explain all this to my mother. 'Dear Mom, I got back on a bus with almost no brakes because....' My father would get a kick out of this; he would think it was hilarious.
It has been years since I thought of the story of my father on his tricycle, but as I am looking out the window, it comes back to me. Kids love to test fate, to test themselves. Ride your bike up and down the path, learn the curves and then raise the stakes, put a paper bag over your head and see how well you fare.
I am my father's child; I test myself constantly. I throw myself into foreign countries and see how I fare. I moved to China, learned enough Mandarin to get myself into and back out of trouble, made a bunch of friends, and after a year and a half, it was time to test myself again. So three weeks ago, I moved to Cambodia. Again I must learn everything from scratch. I do not know my way around; I don't really have friends yet. I can speak about 10 words of Khmer and count to 19. And here I sit on a bus going through a remote part of the world. Way to put a paper bag over your head and see how you fare. If my father were alive to see me now'
We arrive in the evening and walk to Kunthea's aunt's hotel, where we will be staying for a few days. Kunthea borrows a motorcycle to show me around, and I stand beside her as she backs up.
'Do they have helmets?' I ask.
'Do not need in Kampong Cham. I think is okay,' she replies. I know by now that 'do not need' also translates into 'therefore do not have.' So I close my eyes tightly and climb on behind my 90-pound friend. As we zip across a bridge and watch the Mekong River rushing below us, a truck full of kids passes by and they point and wave, 'Barang!' I wave back and we all grin.
We watch the sun setting behind the grey wooden boats with big nets hung like spider-web circus tents above the river. Then we return to the hotel and Kunthea cooks for me. She is a great cook and has gone out and purchased some items from the grocery store that she knows I will like. Dragon fruit for breakfast, and tonight she makes ginger chicken and garlic beef along with piles of rice. (So much for being vegetarian.) She goes to the freezer and takes out the only item inside, the meat she bought before we went for our ride. It does not look frozen; in fact it does not look cold. I notice the fridge door is standing open and ask if I should close it. 'Is okay, is not plugged in.' Awesome. Five-hour-old beef. The chicken is in a bowl on the table, not even pretending to be cooled. The room smells foul. I stare at the little chicken head lying on the side of the small bowl, the one foot crimped up beside it. Yep, I am gonna die. Food poisoning, here I come. It is just a matter of time, the other ex-pats tell me, and de-worming is something everyone does here on an every-six-months basis (and, for the record, no, I do not mean our pets). Still, I am so hungry from two meals of just rice, and everything tastes so delicious that I find myself eating quite a bit. Miraculously, and thank God, I am well in the morning and ready to go to Kunthea's house.
Her father picks us up in his SUV. He works in the government and her family is well-connected and wealthy within this province. Everyone waves to her father as we drive by; it is like traveling with royalty. We drive until the asphalt has long since given way to dirt and the dirt to mud, and when the water is too deep, we park at a neighbor's house and her uncle and cousin take off walking through the knee-high red muddy water, down what once was a road to her house.
Then her father gets on a motorcycle and they put me on behind him. I tuck my long skirt in around me and off we go, slipping and sliding through the madness of the Mekong that has taken over this area. Her house is wooden and on stilts. Once we arrive there, the water has given way to ground again and I climb off the motorcycle, hands folded at my chin, bowing and saying thank you in Khmer. In the gate we go. We gather her aunt, Kunthea goes up into the house to get her formal clothes for the temple, and off we go, back again, repeating the procedure in reverse until we arrive at the neighbor's house, where Kunthea can change into her traditional skirt and glimmering white lace top.
Once changed, we were off to the temple. Pchum Ben is one of the longest festivals in Cambodia. Over the first 14 days, the villages take turns making offerings, and today, the last day, is Ben Thom or 'great offering.' It is a special day when all families bring baskets of food, clothes and flowers to the monks. The women wear white tops and brightly colored silk skirts. Special sticky rice offerings are given, and everyone prays to help their ancestors pass on to a better life.
The offerings are shared by the poor and disabled during Pchum Ben and the donors acquire merit to cancel out past sins. I am all for canceling out past sins. We light incense and there is so much smoke I can hardly see at times. My hand is burned from falling ash as we place our glowing sticks in among the rest. We dole out rice to the bowls the monks have supplied. We walk barefoot over water that runs down the path after being poured over Buddha's head.
After a couple of hours, our ancestors must have been judged full and we leave, returning to Kunthea's house. She tells me she had wanted us to stay at the hotel, because I would be more comfortable there, as her house does not have all the things I need. I thank her, but tell her that I don't actually need air conditioning or hot water, and that the next time I come I want to sleep at her house in a hammock. She smiles at this. She knows I will.
I will, but I also know that my inner princess can be deferred, but not denied, and that after a day or so I will want a 'real' (i.e., hot) shower. I wonder if that will ever change?
We get ready to head back into town and this time I walk through the mud with my pants pulled up above my knees, laughing as I slip around in all the water. After dinner in the town's one open restaurant, we go to bed early and wake at 5 a.m. to return to Phnom Penh.
The sun rises as we drive, lighting the clouds with silver. We listen to a radio station playing songs in English and I quietly stifle laughter at some of the inappropriate lyrics. Kunthea falls asleep in the front seat and I just look out the window as the countless kilometers of dirt road pass. I am going to miss this place. I try to take it all in. Every second, another image: the stilted wooden houses, the palm trees, rice fields, the Mekong River overflowing from the recent monsoons, the makeshift tent homes, cows driven up along the road by the encroaching water, dogs trotting along looking purposeful, children fishing, water buffalo, an inspiring number of people on one scooter (I often see up to six), young children running around naked, their tanned bodies matching the reddish dirt.
How can I express what it is like here? It is beautiful, heartbreaking, inspiring'and the most friendly place I have ever been. People smile at me all the time. Probably because I am the crazy foreigner on the back of a motorcycle, but I smile back, and their grin gets bigger, and next thing you know we are all laughing.
Maybe I really came here to remember how to laugh. To stand knee-deep in red muddy water wearing flip-flops and laugh, because if there is someone here to see me, then they too are standing knee-deep in red muddy water wearing flip-flops. It feels like the first time in a long time I am actually on my path. Maybe what I actually came here to do was to take my paper bag off and see it.
Editor's Note: Sybil Grieb's mother, Sylvia, is the owner of The Letter Shop on Via de la Paz. Her late father, Bill, was Citizen of the Year in 1997.'
17th November, 2011
By SYBIL GRIEB
Special to the Palisadian-Post
My father once put a paper bag over his head and rode his tricycle down a set of stairs. He was four at the time, and he knocked out all his front teeth. I was young when he told me this story, and though I don't dare to remember what I was doing that inspired him to tell it, I do remember that upon on hearing it I promptly fell over in the grass, laughing.
I am now sitting on a bus in Cambodia. The air conditioning broke on the first bus, so we switched, and this second bus smells like burning rubber, but it is cooler inside and the Khmer music videos play and we continue on our way. The flower garlands along the front of the bus sway as we hit rocks and potholes the size of bathtubs along the intermittently paved road to Kampong Cham.
I look out the dusty windows trying to memorize every detail along this beautiful and unfamiliar terrain. I am the only Western person on this bus. 'Barang, barang,' they all said, smiling as I got on. It means foreigner. And I will likely not see another foreigner or meet anyone fluent in English for days.
It is Pchum Ben, the ancestors' festival celebrated by Cambodian Buddhists, and I am traveling with a new friend, Kunthea, to her province. The ride takes about three hours from the capital city of Phnom Penh, where we both now live. When we stop and get out to stretch our legs, vendors are selling some brown cooked snacks by the kilogram along the side of the road. Kunthea picks one up from a red plastic bucket and asks me, 'What is this in English?' 'Cockroach,' I reply, as I open my bag, take out my Snickers bar and start chewing. I have lived in Asia long enough to be both prepared and unfazed. The next town we pass is known for its delicious spiders.
Occasionally we stop to let people off, and each time, the driver gets out to check something. At one stop he says something and a few men get off to check with him. Kunthea follows and after a few minutes, they all return and we are on our way again.
'What is he doing?' I ask. 'There is a problem with the'how do I tell you in English'the thing that makes us stop.' Awesome, it's our brakes burning. And I imagine trying to explain all this to my mother. 'Dear Mom, I got back on a bus with almost no brakes because....' My father would get a kick out of this; he would think it was hilarious.
It has been years since I thought of the story of my father on his tricycle, but as I am looking out the window, it comes back to me. Kids love to test fate, to test themselves. Ride your bike up and down the path, learn the curves and then raise the stakes, put a paper bag over your head and see how well you fare.
I am my father's child; I test myself constantly. I throw myself into foreign countries and see how I fare. I moved to China, learned enough Mandarin to get myself into and back out of trouble, made a bunch of friends, and after a year and a half, it was time to test myself again. So three weeks ago, I moved to Cambodia. Again I must learn everything from scratch. I do not know my way around; I don't really have friends yet. I can speak about 10 words of Khmer and count to 19. And here I sit on a bus going through a remote part of the world. Way to put a paper bag over your head and see how you fare. If my father were alive to see me now'
We arrive in the evening and walk to Kunthea's aunt's hotel, where we will be staying for a few days. Kunthea borrows a motorcycle to show me around, and I stand beside her as she backs up.
'Do they have helmets?' I ask.
'Do not need in Kampong Cham. I think is okay,' she replies. I know by now that 'do not need' also translates into 'therefore do not have.' So I close my eyes tightly and climb on behind my 90-pound friend. As we zip across a bridge and watch the Mekong River rushing below us, a truck full of kids passes by and they point and wave, 'Barang!' I wave back and we all grin.
We watch the sun setting behind the grey wooden boats with big nets hung like spider-web circus tents above the river. Then we return to the hotel and Kunthea cooks for me. She is a great cook and has gone out and purchased some items from the grocery store that she knows I will like. Dragon fruit for breakfast, and tonight she makes ginger chicken and garlic beef along with piles of rice. (So much for being vegetarian.) She goes to the freezer and takes out the only item inside, the meat she bought before we went for our ride. It does not look frozen; in fact it does not look cold. I notice the fridge door is standing open and ask if I should close it. 'Is okay, is not plugged in.' Awesome. Five-hour-old beef. The chicken is in a bowl on the table, not even pretending to be cooled. The room smells foul. I stare at the little chicken head lying on the side of the small bowl, the one foot crimped up beside it. Yep, I am gonna die. Food poisoning, here I come. It is just a matter of time, the other ex-pats tell me, and de-worming is something everyone does here on an every-six-months basis (and, for the record, no, I do not mean our pets). Still, I am so hungry from two meals of just rice, and everything tastes so delicious that I find myself eating quite a bit. Miraculously, and thank God, I am well in the morning and ready to go to Kunthea's house.
Her father picks us up in his SUV. He works in the government and her family is well-connected and wealthy within this province. Everyone waves to her father as we drive by; it is like traveling with royalty. We drive until the asphalt has long since given way to dirt and the dirt to mud, and when the water is too deep, we park at a neighbor's house and her uncle and cousin take off walking through the knee-high red muddy water, down what once was a road to her house.
Then her father gets on a motorcycle and they put me on behind him. I tuck my long skirt in around me and off we go, slipping and sliding through the madness of the Mekong that has taken over this area. Her house is wooden and on stilts. Once we arrive there, the water has given way to ground again and I climb off the motorcycle, hands folded at my chin, bowing and saying thank you in Khmer. In the gate we go. We gather her aunt, Kunthea goes up into the house to get her formal clothes for the temple, and off we go, back again, repeating the procedure in reverse until we arrive at the neighbor's house, where Kunthea can change into her traditional skirt and glimmering white lace top.
Once changed, we were off to the temple. Pchum Ben is one of the longest festivals in Cambodia. Over the first 14 days, the villages take turns making offerings, and today, the last day, is Ben Thom or 'great offering.' It is a special day when all families bring baskets of food, clothes and flowers to the monks. The women wear white tops and brightly colored silk skirts. Special sticky rice offerings are given, and everyone prays to help their ancestors pass on to a better life.
The offerings are shared by the poor and disabled during Pchum Ben and the donors acquire merit to cancel out past sins. I am all for canceling out past sins. We light incense and there is so much smoke I can hardly see at times. My hand is burned from falling ash as we place our glowing sticks in among the rest. We dole out rice to the bowls the monks have supplied. We walk barefoot over water that runs down the path after being poured over Buddha's head.
After a couple of hours, our ancestors must have been judged full and we leave, returning to Kunthea's house. She tells me she had wanted us to stay at the hotel, because I would be more comfortable there, as her house does not have all the things I need. I thank her, but tell her that I don't actually need air conditioning or hot water, and that the next time I come I want to sleep at her house in a hammock. She smiles at this. She knows I will.
I will, but I also know that my inner princess can be deferred, but not denied, and that after a day or so I will want a 'real' (i.e., hot) shower. I wonder if that will ever change?
We get ready to head back into town and this time I walk through the mud with my pants pulled up above my knees, laughing as I slip around in all the water. After dinner in the town's one open restaurant, we go to bed early and wake at 5 a.m. to return to Phnom Penh.
The sun rises as we drive, lighting the clouds with silver. We listen to a radio station playing songs in English and I quietly stifle laughter at some of the inappropriate lyrics. Kunthea falls asleep in the front seat and I just look out the window as the countless kilometers of dirt road pass. I am going to miss this place. I try to take it all in. Every second, another image: the stilted wooden houses, the palm trees, rice fields, the Mekong River overflowing from the recent monsoons, the makeshift tent homes, cows driven up along the road by the encroaching water, dogs trotting along looking purposeful, children fishing, water buffalo, an inspiring number of people on one scooter (I often see up to six), young children running around naked, their tanned bodies matching the reddish dirt.
How can I express what it is like here? It is beautiful, heartbreaking, inspiring'and the most friendly place I have ever been. People smile at me all the time. Probably because I am the crazy foreigner on the back of a motorcycle, but I smile back, and their grin gets bigger, and next thing you know we are all laughing.
Maybe I really came here to remember how to laugh. To stand knee-deep in red muddy water wearing flip-flops and laugh, because if there is someone here to see me, then they too are standing knee-deep in red muddy water wearing flip-flops. It feels like the first time in a long time I am actually on my path. Maybe what I actually came here to do was to take my paper bag off and see it.
Editor's Note: Sybil Grieb's mother, Sylvia, is the owner of The Letter Shop on Via de la Paz. Her late father, Bill, was Citizen of the Year in 1997.'
6 comments:
They need to stop people from using "Nets" I meant all kind of Nets to catch fishes in cambodia, this will destroy fishes...I wish there's lot lot of fishes like in Pol Pot's time...
1:52 AM, you should have seen how they fish before. They used electricity from battery shocking the water to kill very much every living creatures in the water. Another stupidest thing was throwing a grenade in the water to kill fishes. There were several more techniques that they used that basically destroy fihes populations. Even during the Khmer Rouge, there were plenty of fishes in Cambodia's lakes and rivers, now they're scarce. After Ah Youn kankap Srok Khmer for about 10 years from 1979-1991, alot of shits were destroyed.
WOW interesting story. I am impressed with the author's observation and touched by the story. Cambodia is a wonderful country and khmer are wonderful people.
No matter how much fishes you put in the lakes, ponds, river, stream...If you let people using illegal nets to catch fishes every single day...They need to stop or punish people for using illegal nets period!
Fine$ people who catch and selling baby fishes in the market...Taken illegally size must fine$ and punish...
Get rid off illegally viets...
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