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The Cambodian roadside views continue to imitate a war zone. Blackened tree stumps and fallen trunks litter the wasteland that leads up to the edge of the forest. Often no crops or trees or anything else take the place of the forest. Why go to the trouble of hacking and burning? We hear some of the wood is sold to Vietnam. We speculate the burning has some religious significance. In the evenings locals often come to us and stoke our campfire, clasping their hands together and kowtowing in the Buddhist style of prayer.

In the soft afternoon light we stop at a plain hut raised several feet above the ground. Mr. Sre, a man in short blue sports shorts and a loose-fitting shirt climbs down the ladder to greet us. He bemusedly rolls a cigarette as Nakia and I, by motions and phrasebook phrases try to ask his permission to camp in his field.

He unconcernedly lights his thick stogy and speaks softly in Cambodian. As the strong smell of tobacco drifts over us, we think we’ve obtained his permission. “Thanks,”we say, being glad say something in Cambodian the pronunciation of which we are certain.

Later, as we set up camp in the field, the whole village comes to watch. A shirtless man speculates to his friend in the red-checkered head scarf as to the nature of my tent. A naked child jumps up and down excitedly as Nakia unloads her bike. The white flash of smiles illuminates the crowd. Laughter filters through the dry air.

Drew takes out the instruments. To the beat of “Steal My Kisses” he raised puffs of dust from the bone dry paddy . Pete bows out a quick melody on the Er-hu, then sets it down in favor of the drum. Mr. Sre, our landlord for the night, picks it up. Everyone wants to try to play the er-hu. But he actually does play it. With fingers positioned expertly on the strings, he slides out a fast, haunting Cambodian melody. How does a Cambodian peasant know how to play the er-hu? Unfortunately, we can’t ask.

After the crowd has retreated in the face of our cooking preparations, and after we’ve eaten our food and sip contentedly on Pete’s birthday beer, Mr. and Mrs. Sre come back. The proceed with a blaring radio and a headlamp. They let us toy with their radio. We are amazed. None of us have controlled a radio in months. We fondle it the way villagers often do our bikes and cameras and tools.

The Sre’s communicate with us intermittently. We try the phrase-book, but it takes us only so far. Mr. Sre lights another sulfurous cigarette, Mrs. Sre asks Nakia questions that evoke peals of laughter in the asking. We assure her none of us are dating, that Nakia has no kids, that she is not married. What other kinds of questions might generate such mirth?

All the excitement generates exhaustion in us. After the Sre’s take their wailing radio back to their home on stilts, we lie down to sleep, grateful for our hosts and the fact that you don’t always need language to communicate.

This entry was posted on Sunday, February 10th, 2008 at 10:29 pm and is filed under Jim's Posts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.