Cambodia: A Lore Of Three Cities, Of Beauty And Violence

Manila Bulletin –  

Sat, Jun 16, 2012

Gossamer wings brushed my shoulders as giant dragonflies wafted past me to land on water hyacinth clumps over the Great Lake, Tonle Sap.

"Dragonflies mean we'll have rain today." Sarath, my About Asia Travel guide, nosed to a straggler blown on our boat's prow.

"I hope not," I muttered as I sneaked up to the dragonfly, coaxing him to perch on my fingers.

Just then, a grey-headed eagle swooped down in front of us and re-emerged with fish hooked in his talons. Startled, the dragonflies lofted off en masse while fish dove deep in the mud.

Already, I can taste the rain in the wind. An early monsoon is roiling Southeast Asia's biggest lake, converting the Tonle Sap into a restless milk-chocolate expanse.

In the dry season, the Great Lake mirrors the azure skies as it drains, pouring millions of migratory catfish to their spawning grounds in the sea. It leaves behind blackfish hiding in the shallows under the hyacinths, plus rich silt that feeds the rice fields, the watermelons, beans and corn on which millions of Khmers depend.

In the monsoon, melt waters from Himalayan glaciers and rain deluging the Mekong engorges the lake, tripling its size. Swallowing its own waters, the Tonle Sap reverses its flow, filling up with young fish as it floods the mangroves and the plains.

The floating rice has adapted to the lake, growing fast, thrusting out 20-foot long stems to keep their grains from drowning. On the other hand, the birds, the villagers of Siem Reap.