This drizzly, humid Saturday morning I woke up uncharacteristically early to pay my rent and found myself cheerfully grabbing an umbrella to walk to the grocery store and ramble around the neighborhood at a time I never see it at. Most of the regular motodups in a two-block radius of the apartment recognize me as a local that almost always waves them off, so I was greeted today by waves and exclamations of “How you today!” One driver who used to take me to Mith Samlanh several days a week gave me a big smile and asked, “Madam, Mith Samlanh?” in a conversational tone that clearly implied, “Do you still work there?” I returned his smile and said “Cha, but I walk now!” and mimed a brisk stomping while pointing in the direction of Mith Samlanh. He laughed and slapped his knee as I went to haggle with the day’s coconut cart driver to get my morning hydration fix.
My “auntie” landlady told me, with her English-speaking niece’s translation, that Khmer people drink the milk of at least two coconuts per day, and always one in the morning. They also munch on the flakes of the finished shells, because the health benefits in the tropics are so excellent. It took a few tries to get used to the taste, but now I look forward to heading to my routine nearby corner where either a coconut cart man will posted or will have sold a big branchful to the miniature family store for resale. I can always feel my skin and tendons expanding a little and my head clearing. The coconut cart driver this morning was an old pro, wielding his huge rectangular flat-knife in a series of catlike strokes to slice off the top, exposing the delicate inner skin that is easily punctured by a straw. I balanced the heavy fruit in my free hand happily and moved on to the bread man who pedals the rounds morning and afternoon with his blanketed basket of warm Khmer baguettes strapped to the back of his bicycle—I picked an especially golden sesame loaf and handed over the 500 riel (15 cents.)
I arrived at the grocery store fifteen minutes before opening, so I sat on the street curb under my umbrella and watched the noodle soup ladies with their big banana leaf-covered cooking pots strung on both ends of a big stick balanced on their shoulders walk past and stop for their regular customers who are ladled out a bowl and squat down to eat while the noodle lady rests. A beggar child came and plopped down next to me, in oddly high spirits considering the bag of trash from scavenging that he was lugging. He held out his hand, palm up, and when I shook my head he shrugged and put his hand roughly on my cheek. I was caught off guard and alarmed but quickly realized that he was feeling my white skin when he next grabbed my wrist. He nodded towards the grocery store and said, “Chicken? Sohm [please]?” I looked at his scarred fingers next to my unharmed ones, at his hair reddened from kwashikori, starvation, that he picked lice from. I knew I could never buy him chicken, but I felt the lie when he patted the roll of cash in my jeans pocket and I said, “I have money because I studied—you should go to school.” He probably should have spit in my face for that. Instead he waggled those fingers at me like an old friend when I finally walked into the store.
I have made great strides in discovering tricks for living on my $5.00 per day budget, which does not include long-term expenses. I scour the “damaged” shelves at the grocery store to find a partially squished carton of milk marked down to $1.00, or a bunch of bruised bananas for $0.55, and have become a frequent customer in the $0.30 instant noodles aisle. I walked with my bag of clearance finds to my favorite street coffee seller where all the old guys who hang out there know me, laugh and crinkle up their yellowed eyes in greeting, and pull me up a tin stool while I wait for my baggie of expertly mixed Vietnamese coffee. This morning I watched the owner’s wife familiarly give her grandson a few riel to put in the silver alms pail of the monk waiting outside. The grandson knelt at the foot of the monk’s orange robe to pray and be blessed, his nose to the ground, then he skipped back under the aluminum roof to continue helping with dishes and chopping blocks of ice. The old men all helped hold my grocery bag and pull out my stool when I fished in my pocket for correct change to pay, and shouted their chum reap lea’s, goodbyes, as I rounded the corner and waved.
The morning was a welcome continuation of the deepening integration into this place I’ve felt like a sweeping undercurrent all week. Yesterday afternoon I brought a friend of a friend to ANDC, and marveled to myself that I could now explain the place and introduce children and tell their stories. A group of the most hyperactive kids, including the center’s two young dancing aficionados, put on a singing and dancing show in the dirt yard for their guest and me, choreographed by one of the budding maestros. Water Festival ended in Christine and I joining the unbelievably massive crowds to try for a glimpse of King Sihamoni as he left the river Thursday night, and then our walk back to our neighboring apartments being obstructed by a literal standstill a block away from our destination. So many pedestrians and motos had tried to shove through that the artery was clogged to the point of Christine and I joining other able-bodied youngsters in clambering over the hoods of cars and back wheels of motos, aided by ready upheld hands, to avoid having our feet crushed or being pulled down in the mob. We escaped clutching our lungs from the smog, wheezing in laughter for lack of any other reaction, and examining our shins and hips for exhaust pipe burns and bruises as the police roared up with loudspeakers and big sticks.
I have discovered exercise to be the secret that unlocked my mind to openness and contentment. I run and lift weights or condition for an hour or more in the evening seven days a week when the weather is cool and breezy, and I walk everywhere I possibly can within reason. Once I conquered my fear of dehydration and pushing myself too far in an unfamiliar climate, gathering wisdom and resources, I became addicted to the thinking space running especially gives me. It lets me put every difficult exchange, sight, and emotion through each of my mental processors, the strain and ache of my muscles lessening the feelings of guilt and helplessness I increasingly have when debriefing my days and preparing my next steps and plans. It also allows my almost irrevocably accustomed-to-constant-activity self to take the time for reflection and simple thought about basic and essential points that mill around the edges of my conscious stream of effort.
Comments