via CAAI
Friday, October 15, 2010
THOMAS HUANG / The Dallas Morning News
thuang@dallasnews.com
"What am I doing here?"
This is the question you must ask yourself when you travel great distances on your own. You have thrust yourself out into the world, to places that are completely alien to you.
You may learn something about the culture, or not. You may get sick, or not. You may make lasting friendships, or not. After a while, you feel homesick. You wonder whether you can ever become more than the outsider who stays a day or two, only to leave without making a true connection.
Yet, for me, there is something perverse in this: I feel most at home when I am traveling. I never feel more alive than when I'm set to enter an unfamiliar city or country.
Still, am I being honest with myself?
The road is a lonely place. The problems and the pain that you are trying to escape – they are always there with you, wherever you go.
Sometimes, it's only through the grace of strangers that you find a way to move forward.
FOLLOWING THE MUSIC IN PHNOM PENH
PHNOM PENH – The quiet boy, Kosair, takes me for a walk through his village on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. We walk down a dirt path, past a small storefront where a woman comforts her baby. Cars and motorbikes have gathered in front of another house; there's a wedding party tonight.
We walk by a group of dark-haired schoolgirls who stare at me, and their giggles turn to laughter. I know I must be a peculiar sight, a tall Chinese-American man in clothes rumpled by days of travel.
THOMAS HUANG/DMN
In the late afternoon light, Kosair takes a visitor on a tour of his village. Every so often, people zoom by on motorbikes, kicking up dust.
Every so often, people on motorbikes zoom by, and I clutch my camera more tightly, protecting it from their rooster tails of golden dust. I assure myself that the boy and I are safe. This is a peaceful village, and while Phnom Penh was a violent city just a few years ago, things have stabilized.
Still, I am disoriented; I don't belong here; I don't know where we are going. I could lose my way, and who would know?
The boy, Kosair, with large, watchful eyes, walks in the glow of the sun, bare-chested, wearing knee-length shorts and sandals. I am staying with his family in a house owned by a friend, an American journalist.
We pantomime our way through a conversation. We move our first two fingers, pointed downward, to show that we are going for a walk. We hear a song in the distance. To my ears, it sounds like a blend of xylophone, wind chimes and steel drums. Together, Kosair and I say, "Music." We point at other things and say the words: Car, road, tree, house, river.
We cross a bridge over the Mekong River, and, looking back, Kosair gestures toward our starting point, a small house on the riverbank. "Dey Sena," he says, or something that sounds like that. His mother's name is Sena. Perhaps he is saying, "That's my mother's house."
THOMAS HUANG/DMN
Kosair and his sister, Sreyleak, tease each other on the patio, playing tug-of-war with a towel.
Kosair seems to be guiding me toward the music. We are both curious about where it's coming from. I wonder whether it's coming from a temple. We turn down another dirt road and pass several traditional stilt houses. A few people sleep in hammocks in the space underneath their houses.
We never do find the source of the music.
Kosair notices that a man in a white shirt is following us. The boy seems a little spooked. He motions for us to return home. We walk a little more quickly. Our stride grows a little longer. Once home, we are greeted by Kosair's grandfather and his mischievous little sister, Sreyleak.
The family embraces me with their warmth and cooks me a dinner of Khmer chicken soup, stir-fried shrimp and vegetables, and steamed rice. I eat my meal on the patio and watch the fishermen in their skiffs float by. Families emerge from their houses to bathe their children in the river.
Night sounds
My friend's place is a compound of small houses overlooking the Mekong River. I sleep under mosquito netting, in a guest room near a grove of mango trees, guarded by two excitable dogs. I toss and turn.
THOMAS HUANG/DMN The sun rises over the Mekong River outside Phnom Penh. Observing life on the river in the soft, new light is a profound experience.
Late into the night, the neighborhood wedding party celebrates with loud Cambodian pop music, and I can hear drunken voices trying, unsuccessfully at times, to sing along.
Then there is quiet for a while, but music starts up again at 5 in the morning. (Later, I learn that it is wedding season in Cambodia, and the predawn music signals the beginning of another wedding.)
The wake-up call turns out to be a blessing.
Jumping out of bed, I pull on my clothes and wander out into the humid air, stepping gently onto the patio with my camera.
I hear the song of cicadas, the wind rustling the trees, the lapping of water on the banks. In the soft, new light, I watch a man and woman paddle their boat down the river, stopping every so often to catch fish in their nets. Downstream, in the distance, several men help their cows wade (and then swim?) to the opposite shore.
I try to capture this scene, the sunrise over the river, with my camera, but I am no photographer, and I can't quite make the images show what my eyes see. I think about the woman I loved for many years, a steadfast traveling partner. I want to share this moment with her, but she is not there.
Still, it is a profound experience. Even though I am not a particularly religious person, I am moved to whisper, "Thank you, God."
And then it is a new morning. I hear the laughter of Kosair and Sreyleak. I walk back to the house to pack my things and say goodbye.
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