 I was born in the province of Takeo, in Srok Tram Kok, Khum Ta Phaem, Phoum Por Preah Sangh, by a little pond called Trawpeang Dar Skor. The pond has long dried, and a little knoll of dirt has taken its place, but my aunts and cousins can take me to the exact plot of land and tell me of the exact day and time of day of when I came to be, and I do not cease to marvel that, in the midst of Cambodia's eternally damned current events, they would take the time to remember this.
From Phnom Penh, you take National Route 3 to Takeo, all the way to Sala Deum Chrobok (before you reach Ang Ta Soam), where you turn right onto a little dirt road that will take you past Wat Por Preahsangh, and a little ways further in, you will spy the roof of a jaetdey (actually, you will find two jaetdeys because there is a rift somewhere in the family line, and apparently the remains cannot rest peacefully together--I have some thoughts on this, but when in Rome, if you cannot do as the Romans do, I suppose you keep quiet, especially if you happen to love these Romans and do not want to hurt their feelings.)
 Beyond these two warring jaetdeys, you will find my grandmother's house, a one roomed hut on wood and cement stilts, roofed in bricks and tin and boasting a little trawpeang in front. My grandmother will likely be resting beneath the house, a tiny figure, shrunken and distilled to not much more than bones. She broke her legs two years ago trying to avoid a cow and has not walked since, though I have heard they still put her on a motorcycle and take her to the wat now and again. She felt my arms and legs and asked me if I was truly Sdeung since I seemed thicker than before. She recently lost her sight. My grandmother is 94, the youngest of seven children and the only one remaining of her siblings. She's a devout Buddhist, knows her Pali backwards and forwards, can smoke a pack daily if allowed, and retains a remarkably acerbic wit.
1.10.05. Por Preah Sangh. 3 a.m.
I woke, bladder full, to the sounds of various animals: pigs snoring, rooster wings (the roosters start crowing at 1 a.m.--at least in my village--which seems to me a despairingly early hour to be waking up), insects chirping conversation, all in sublime disregard of their slumbering humans. A ring of men was still playing cards on another bed. I slipped on flip-flops and went around the side of the house to pee. It was pitch black. There is no darkness like a country’s darkness. I don't believe I understood pitch black until I came to Srok Khmer. It is a wall of black, the purest absence of light you can imagine, stretching in front of you, around you, as far as your eyes cannot see. Much as I knew my way around the house by daylight, I was absolutely convinced every step I took in the inky molasses nocturne would be my last. I gave up trying to make it to the outhouse which lay some intolerable meters beyond the abyss. I squatted by the peang (cement water barrel.) When I was done, I gingerly stood, looked up….
…to where the stars hung like diamonds in the bright dark night…
 My breath stilled. I wanted to cry. The night fell away. There, just beyond the outlines of the coconut and palm leaves, was the universe as I’d never seen, laid out in an unbelievable canvas of a million jewels, each brighter than the next. The stars glittered and winked and danced, so close my impossible heart whispered that if I just reached out my hand….
 I stood for a time in Por Preah Sangh’s 3 a.m., gathering dew in my hair, starlight on my face, struck breathless by the immeasurable gifts that life and time can lay by the wayside. I felt the soil with my toes, imagined my grandfather, my great-grandfather, my great-great-grandmother standing where I was, in another time, awashed in the same stars. I felt wonder and a depth of gratitude, and could do nothing but say thank you, and hello. I would never be afraid of the ghosts who walked here. When I could move, I went to get the camera. I tried to take a picture of the stars, with Canon’s digital 4.0 mega pixel ELF. I took pictures of my grandmother sleeping, of my aunts sleeping, of my uncle, my cousins, my nieces and nephews, all bundled in a row on the wooden bed underneath the house, a hair’s breath away from a myriad bounties. I took pictures of the village’s men playing catay, who had been playing since dusk rolled in, who had been playing every night till dawn breaks over the fields. Much as they loved their game, I knew they were there, every night since I’d arrived, mostly to guard me from any possible mishap that an ex-pat’s nights in a remote Cambodian village might invite. They joked with me and told me to show the pictures to my mother waiting for me in the US, my mother who is their aunt, their cousin, their friend…I snapped shot after shot. I would be going back to Phnom Penh the next day, if only to give them some sleep.
The rooster resumed his crowing. Across the village, his friend replied, and so on and so on. Somewhere else a motorcycle came to life and a man left to make his family's living. I inserted myself in between the bundled row of my family and closed my eyes.
 Morning would come to find us centuries hence. |
