Our Cambodian Home

I wake to the sounds of roosters crowing and monks chanting Buddhist mantras over a distant loudspeaker. The former burst without warning, like desperate cries of sorrow; the latter drone steadily with constant affirmations of peace. In the darkness of my room, I try to tune my mind to the mantras, effortlessly woven harmonies and unisons meant to prepare the mind for meditation. They offer me profound comfort.

Our little house is dark as night when I emerge from my room. The black and heavy wooden doors are here to protect us, and they shut out all light from the outside. All, that is, except for bits that shine enticingly through a few cracks. These tiny shafts of brightly glowing white mesmerize me every morning. They beckon: there is a whole world of light, just beyond these doors.  

I enter the kitchen, still hot from yesterday’s cooking and today’s modern convenience of a running refrigerator. I light the coils of incense that will keep mosquitos from entering the house. Then I open the doors. Moist, refreshing air bathes my senses, an ablution for the soul. (It’s actually 81 degrees, I just checked, but the sun hasn’t yet come out from behind the clouds, so it still feels blissfully cool.) There are birdcalls and purring crickets. Bells percolate an unfamiliar tune through the thickness of the air. Smoke from morning fires hangs heavy. A tentative breeze stirs the wind chime on our front porch. Then the first sound of a motorbike rumbling past.

Take in the morning.

To take in the morning, I sit on an old wooden bench, inlaid with mother of pearl, carved with lions, and curved in the middle—I presume to keep courters from transgressing local standards of propriety. For now, my only company is a cup of fresh lemongrass tea and an endearing stray cat that is heavy with unborn children. My children are stirring somewhere inside.

This house is an oasis, a paradise for me. Lush gardens of tropical leaves and flowers soften the square of its enclosing walls. Around each corner is a new enclave to inspire. Here, a wooden walkway crosses a small koi pond, beside which I like to write in the afternoon. Around this corner, a few mango trees bow under the weight of their fruits as if inspecting the ancient oxcart that rests at their feet. Just beyond, the swimming pool of rough black stone and cascading design, where I take breaks from the heat and where the children find active respite from stillness.

Inside, we have space! Months of living together in just enough area for two beds and some running water—and now we have a whole little house! There are a kitchen and a full-sized table for meals together. A sofa we can all fit on. It feels like an incredible luxury. The ceilings are high. The decor is attractive but not overly breakable (a necessary consideration with three boys). The pillows are soft, and there are two per person, what opulence! And all for a price as calming as the gentle breeze. We are so thankful!

Quiet reflection time is over—the kids are up and ready to eat. (If I’m lucky, the power won’t go out until after I’m finished cooking.) Breakfast is banana pancakes and fresh fruit, all from the local open-air market. I can’t wait to describe it to you! How about I walk you there, basket in hand?

Remember to put on your facemask. Everyone wears them here—I think even before concerns about coronavirus. They help with the dust and the pollution in the streets. The women all wear long pants and sleeves out of modesty, despite soaring temperatures. Perhaps you’ll do the same out of respect for their customs? I just wish I had a pair of printed cotton pajamas, which seem to be the stylish way to stay both cool and covered.

To the market!

Open the deadbolt on the outside gate, and away we go!

The first thing you’ll see is the restaurant across the street, distinguished by the enormous beer sign out front and the booming bass beat that charges up the neighborhood on weekend nights. Inside, it’s full of hammocks and smells like jasmine flowers. The first several items on the menu are different renditions of frog—barbecued, boiled, stir-fried, stewed. Given the thick and stagnant odor coming from the waterways nearby, though, we tend to stick to rice and vegetables.

The best part of being neighbors with the restaurant is seeing the whole family out front playing shuttlecock. They stand in a large circle, laughing and counting “muoy, pee, bey..” when business is slow. (These days, it’s always slow). You won’t see them until the afternoon, though. For now, the only sign of life is the rooster under the domed chickenwire cage.

Hold your breath.

Trying not to get the red dust in our sandals, and avoiding the occasional cowpat or diaper ravaged by stray dogs, we sweat our way to the corner. It’s nine in the morning, and already eighty-six degrees. Small fires make smoke and ashes of last night’s garbage—leaves, plastic bottles, and styrofoam containers. Today there are tires aflame. I hold my breath.

The folks who live on the corner have a small collection of basic wooden structures as their home. The stocky, white creator of the cowpats is tied to a tree, peacefully poking around for a bit of green in the dust. With just a few steps, we’ve suddenly entered rural Cambodia.

A few more steps and the neighborhood shifts again. Houses double as storefronts along both sides of the dirt track. Directly across the way is a lean-two housing a barbershop. Down the road a bit, I could have my nails, hair, or makeup done. There are a few convenience stores, a place to buy fresh coconuts, a store that stocks hundreds of cases of local beer, and a tiny restaurant for eating noodles in the morning. I particularly like the shop that washes motorbikes and fuels them up with gas stored in repurposed rum bottles. Now, that would put some hair on your chest!

Turn left past all these family businesses, and we’re on a paved road that runs between the high school and primary school of Siem Reap. Their walls are dusty, like everything else, but the architectural design has polish. Trees with cascades of yellow blooms and enormous brown seedpods line the walk with radiance. Bougainvillea leans gently over the dry drainage ditch as if to lure one’s mind from the sight and smell of the refuse there. A girl at a nearby cappuccino stand awaits her first customer of the day. Perhaps someone from the local police station or the health clinic?

Make a right turn, and we’re in the shade again, at last! On this residential street, I usually see mothers busy with housework. We wave, and I try my best to greet them with “Susadaii” through my cloth mask. I’m learning to smile with my eyes. Kids are out playing in the courtyards behind iron gates, kicking a ball, or sitting on the arms of wooden benches, pretending to ride motorbikes.

At the main road, real motorbikes zip past, sometimes driven by kids who couldn’t be much older than ten years, with younger siblings clinging to their backs and laughing as they accelerate past me. Antiquated tractors like long metal grasshoppers pull trailers with heavy wooden furniture. Tuk-tuk drivers slow down to see if I want a ride downtown on their bench seats. An old lady slowly pedaling a bicycle shouts in surprise and reproach as a scooter honks and passes her.

Just across this main road is the market where we will buy fresh produce for the day. At this hour, the streets are clogged with organized chaos—people on foot or motorbike, edging along this way and that past the sellers who sit on front stoops, at corners, along alley walls, and under shaded canopies. Fish flop in shallow bins of muddy water before being bashed, scraped, and filleted before our eyes. Tiny crabs try to crawl out of a huge metal pot as if to escape fate. Heaps of larvae lie still like large grains of rice. Dead, plucked ducks tuck their beaks under a naked wing in graceful arcs. I hold my breath.

Finding food.

On to the stacks of things we ARE buying today—mounds of fresh ginger, turmeric, tamarind, lemongrass, mint, and basil! Hearts of palm! Baby corn! Banana flowers to slice thin and turn into a salad. Fungal mysteries that look like little brown eggs and, it turns out, hold the treasured button mushroom inside. Before now, I’ve only tasted ones that have seen the inside of a can! Mangoes, pineapples, watermelon, rambutan, lychee, pomelo! Bananas, of course, though I still can’t tell how to pick the sweeter ones. Noodles, rice, tofu, freshly baked baguettes!

We stop by the egg seller; I’m anxious because yesterday I dropped my journal somewhere amidst the chaos and the fish scales. The last time I remember seeing it was after picking through her baskets of chicken and duck eggs (ten for a dollar). Her son has been encouraging me to learn more Khmer phrases, which I dutifully copied down and brought out to practice the day before. Upon seeing me today, she reaches for a high shelf and brings out the precious book. Oh, happy day! I do a little dance to celebrate.

It’s fair to say I stand out here. Siem Reap is no stranger to foreigners. Because of Angkor Wat’s famous temples, this city has the largest airport, the highest concentration of hotels, a plethora of Western-style restaurants, and an army of people in the service industry, offering everything from transportation to tanks of fish that will nibble off the dead skin on your feet. Because of the coronavirus pandemic, however, those tourists have all gone home. Only the English teachers and consulate workers are left. You can find them at the large Western supermarket down the street, which is air-conditioned and has comfort food like butter, chocolate, and lentils. (Lentils, oh, how I’ve missed you!)   

Back home, I go. To write, to swim, to read, to teach the kids, to watch Mr. Bean, and to cook. With each passing day, I learn more about how to live here. For instance, I realized I could put the oven and the rice cooker outside so as not to compete with the air conditioning. Potable water is in ample supply; it comes in big and blue reusable containers, sourced from local wells, and purified with UV light. To listen to music, I put our travel speaker inside a conical Cambodian straw hat, which amplifies the sound beautifully. I can push the sofa against the wall to make room for a Zumba video or online Kempo class. I know where the resident cat likes to be scratched and where the geckos like to hide before creeping out for an evening snack.

Our home.

Most importantly, I am remembering what it is like to have a home. One night here, two nights there, three if we were really slowing down—we have been traveling so quickly this past year. This period is the longest we’ve stayed in a single place since beginning our journey almost a year ago. Cambodia may not have been the likely choice for settling down. Actually, I distinctly remember hearing, “I really don’t want to get stuck in Cambodia.” But we are happy here. And you’re stuck somewhere if you choose to be there. And so, we are home.

May you be well and happy wherever you are.