These villages are hidden among the thousands of islands scattered throughout the vast waters of the Mekong. The Mekong River runs through Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, Laos, Myanmar, and China, providing life and sustenance to millions of people. The Mekong’s waters range from a pale blue to a light mud brown to a deep reddish-brown depending on several factors. These versatile waters remind me of the continual changes in both my life and my perspective. Our experiences change like the seasons. This results in a constant transformation of views, beliefs and perspective. For this I am forever thankful as stagnancy is for the boring, the ones who pretend to be content, the ones who fight change even until their final breath.
After a grueling day-long bus ride, a night in a questionable guest house, and the essential iced coffee with sweetened-condensed milk, we embark. The trip must be completed by boat and not the safe boat that many of us might prefer, but a long and narrow weathered wooden contraption filled with ants, splinters, and holes. The motor sits in the stern where the captain stands balancing, navigating, and most often smoking. Throughout the ride, we take turns grabbing anything we see to scoop out the water that quickly fills the floor of the boat. I see no life jackets, no emergency whistles, and no radio Coast Guard to call if we encounter a dangerous storm. The combination of circumstances bring to mind an article I read a few years ago. The world’s largest freshwater fish – the giant catfish which grows up to 660 pounds – makes its home in the Mekong. While I know catfish are not predators, I cannot help but visualize the massiveness of the giant catfish. I glance again at the precarious boat.
Upon arriving at the island of choice the captain becomes a navigator of another sort. After quickly but carefully tying up his main source of income and pride, he grabs an ax, a machete, and another cigarette from his shirt pocket and we set out through the jungle. The atmosphere changes in a heartbeat. Suddenly, we are completely surrounding by luscious foliage. The air feels dense with humidity, but pure and unpolluted. The sounds come from everywhere. I feel surrounded by animal chatter. The noise is deafening and I wish I could record every chirp and every croak to remember their harmony forever.
We reach our destination smiling and drenched with moisture from the precipitation in the air - the village on Koh Preah, or Island of God. The ruddy red roads contrast strikingly with the otherwise fertile surroundings. The village is located along the river. I do not know if the purpose of our jungle excursion was to animate our welcome or merely to avoid a certain area of the river. The monsoon is in full season, which means flooding occurs regularly. Maybe it would be impossible to dock the boat near the village.
At first glance, the village does not disappoint. The bus ride that brought us here could easily be described as the roller coaster ride from hell. The boat adventure was intense. Everything it took to get to this island, which seems to exist in another time, was well worth it. The pigs root in the dirt while roosters peck at the ground, belting out half-hearted crows that seem to stop midway. They seem simply too tired to complete the sentence. The children exude much shyness than city children. They are unaccustomed to unfamiliar, and especially white, faces. Their faces are grimy, their round brown eyes bright, their hellos animated and paired with smiles, their clothing dirty and frayed resemblances of the national school uniform.
The shacks built on stilts are spread out. I am not sure how many exist, but all appear within walking distance. The buildings sag, the tin roofs rusty, and often a board or tree appears carelessly thrown on top of the shack to keep the roof in place. Each family has a dining table beneath their elevated home. Hammocks hang down everywhere. Many of the families have a variety of animals outside, mostly chickens. The occasional “wealthy” village member has a pig or some oxen for plowing. Foliage invades everything, but it is a welcome invasion, for it provides a bit of relief from the extreme heat and harsh rain.
Every person offers a smile, cautious yes, but genuine. Life abounds here. Everywhere I turn I see large spiders, chicks pecking, massive banana flowers, sugar palms, coconut trees, delicious food, oxen plowing small rice fields, monks, and children in white shirts and blue pants or skirts. It is startling to see these kids so far from anywhere, dressing and scampering just like the rest of the country’s children. Though they may be without basic sanitation, reliable income, food, transportation, and many other necessities, they are innocent and free. Their smiles do not bely poverty or any deficiency at all. In fact, seem more carefree than many children who have much more.
I meet Lim Sovannary, one of the village leaders. She is beautiful in her tailored pants and high heels, a red and white striped beanie on her head. We share warm smiles. She sees visible areas on my neck and arms that have deep red bruises leftover from my recent “culture embracing experience.” Coining, similar to cupping, is a common remedy used throughout East Asia to cure many different aches and pains. Though it was painful, I feel it’s always worthwhile to participate in local customs. Sovannary remains speechless for a just moment and then her face fills with joy. A barang (foreigner) who chooses to participate in local customs or even just speak a bit of the language is soon an insider here. She cups my face in her callused brown hands and tells me I am beautiful (in Khmer, she speaks no English). Her smile alone is contagious. The rest of my time here I know I am one of the family. In a collectivist culture, hand-shaking and small talk are not the tools to build a relationship. You can make eye contact with and talk with anyone in this country without getting strange looks. But when you become a part of the family, the family will walk through fire for you.
Sleeping on the only bed in the wooden shack, I consider where I am and who I am. This most generous family with no possessions, no savings, no “Western” hope for the future have more to give than I. They offer all that they have, the only bed, the only blanket. They prepare the finest food with the care of a brand new mother. They aim to please and do not fail.
Here I find humility, strength, and courage. I find once again, that anytime you go somewhere or do something to “help” someone else, usually you become stronger. Usually you receive the help.
Once again, we board the dilapidated boat with our trusty navigator. On this return journey, the magnitude of the river is difficult to ignore. I cannot pull my eyes away from the deepness of the sky. It appears moody, the clouds potent, the colors intense. Here the endless water and colorful sky meet. The vastness takes my breath away and reminds me of my smallness. At some points I look out without seeing the opposite shore. Sometimes we all must draw in a sharp breath and remember our humanity. We must be reminded that giving is better than receiving. We must somehow relearn that a smile remains more valuable than gold; that friendship and authenticity are more precious than any material goods.
