The People You Meet in Another Land
By: Alyssa Chua
Tags: People, Travel, Life, Cambodia, Stories

I remember it as if it were yesterday instead of ten years ago when the tuk-tuk pulled to a stop in front of a house with an iron gate that was to be our home for the next three weeks. They came piling out, just as eager to meet us as we were to meet them.

First, there was Bong Thom*. Bong is a term that they use to address older males. He became like the stereotypical big, annoying, older brother I’d read about in books. He would always tease us, make jokes at our expense, scare us, play tricks on us.

But he was also just as protective and went out of his way to make sure we were adjusting comfortably, and that we understood the cultural norms and customs of Cambodia. He was the one who made sure we remembered to remove our shoes before entering a house, as custom dictated. If we needed a ride on a motorcycle to go somewhere, he would take us.

“What you’re wearing is scary,” he told my friend one day when she came our of the house wearing mini shorts and leggings. Through him, we learned that Cambodia is still quite conservative. The less skin, the better. The women often wear baggy pants and big, long shirts to hide their curves.

Bong Arun came next. He was like Bong Thom if you removed the mischief and added a lot of kindness. He was always asking us if we were fine. “Are you all right? You’re not yet kapuy?” he would often ask, using a word from my home country that means “tired”.

It was Bong Thom who bought spiders and crickets for us to try on our first day, declaring that we could not so much as step out of the house if we didn’t try them. Nevertheless, it was Bong Arun who taught us how to eat and enjoy them.

When Bong Arun took us to his home town, we stayed over at his house, a beautiful wooden one raised on long stilts. He and his mother prepared meals for us, and while the food was still cooking, he got us some green mangoes from the tree in their front yard.

He took us on a tour around the village after lunch, showing us where they cultured their crickets, grew their vegetables, and tended to their livestock. When dusk fell, he took us all back home and served dinner. There was no electricity that night, so while we were washing up, he lit lanterns and candles and waited until we had all done to go to bed before settling in for the night.

Temple in Angkor Wat Cambodia | © Alyssa Chua

Pheakdei was my special partner in crime. I think that was because we instantly bonded on the first night, with him as my motorcycle driver and me as the scared girl who had never ridden a motorcycle before, clutching his shirt and praying we wouldn’t crash.

It’s not that Pheakdei was a bad driver. It’s just that I had never seen so many motorcycles in my entire life. It did not help that they would cut into each other’s paths recklessly, daringly. It was Pheakdei who sat and listened while I taught the English classes.

There were two classes, the high schoolers, a mixed group of boys and girls, and the college-goers, mostly boys. Cambodia, we learned, is a patriarchal country. Men are given a lot more importance than women, and they are the ones who usually pursue studies beyond high school.

On one of the first few nights, Pheakdei came up to me after I had just finished teaching a class and was getting a drink of water in the kitchen. “They say teacher saat,” he told me.

“What? Me? I’m not sad!” I protested, misunderstanding. “No, not sad, saat,” he said. “You know what saat means?” I shook my head. “Saat is pretty. The students are saying the teacher is saat. You are saat.”

I could never be sure, but my companions told me that Pheakdei had also been the subject of much ribbing from his friends where I was concerned. “Pheakdei thinks you are saat,” one of them called out to me one day as I was leaving the house to go to the market.

Overgrown tree in Angkor Wat | © Alyssa Chua

Bona was one who taught us all about daling. “It’s not a really good word,” he said. “It means ‘nightlife’ and you know that means bars and parties, and getting drunk.” We agreed. “But we can have our own meaning,” he went on. “It can mean that we’re just going out at night.” After that, every time we’d go out, we’d say, “Let’s go daling!”

He was mischievous and playful, this Bona. I wouldn’t label it with the flimsy word “fling” that they use when you have a brief summer romance going on, but it was obvious that he was attracted to my friend and she felt the same way. Their brief summer romance would pretty much dictate their moods whenever they were with us.

If he teased her too much, she would become angry and refuse to speak to him. He, in turn, would become sullen and refuse to participate. They couldn’t see eye-to-eye most of the time. Their hurts were too deep, their pasts too raw, their cultures too different. Maybe they were both too young and too stubborn. Maybe she was just coming from heartbreak and he had also just recently broken up with his girl.

Maybe immersing ourselves into another culture for a summer meant we were supposed to see life and the world from their perspective, but not necessarily fall in love.

Steps in Angkor Wat | © Alyssa Chua

Chanvatey was my fellow singer, my co-duet. Prior to going to Cambodia, our host was telling us, “Alyssa needs to meet Chanvatey. They are both musicians and play the guitar.” It didn’t take long to realize that Chanvatey was the more skilled one.

Once he held a guitar in his arms, his hands would never stay still. His fingers would deftly coax out scales and complex tunes. Chanvatey didn’t know how to read music, but he could copy and play a song just by listening to it over and over again. And he sang beautifully too.

At night, just before everyone would go to bed, I would ask him to play some songs and he would. Throughout the three weeks, I was there, our favorites would become Plaine White T’s Hey There Delilah, Owl City’s Vanilla Twilight, and Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat’s Lucky.

Chanvatey’s fingers were not just skilled in playing the guitar, he was a wizard at origami and other paper art too. During our last night in Cambodia, we had a gathering for our English students and the people we met during our stay there. It was some sort of a farewell party. Chanvatey made each of us paper roses as a good-bye gift. I still have mine tucked in a drawer full of other memories.

Chaya was one of the few girls I got to meet during our stay. There was also Soboen, but I couldn’t bring myself to warm up to her. Soboen was too distant, too aloof, which was strange since we lived in the same house, and so we saw her a lot more than we saw Chaya. And yet, it was Chaya who was the outgoing one, the one who asked lots of questions. “Teach me English,” she would beg me.

And I did. In the afternoons when we had not much to do, we would sit by the desk. Sometimes, we would open up her workbook to do the lessons, more often than not, we would talk. She would tell me about her life in Cambodia, her family, her boyfriend. She would ask me questions, too. What it was like where I came from. How had I learned to speak English? What was my college course and why had I chosen to pursue it.

Sunrise in Phnom Penh, Cambodia | © Alyssa Chua

As the time of our visit and cross-cultural exchange program drew to a close, our hearts became heavier, sadder. How does one part with the wonderful people they have met from the first country outside that they have ever been to?

There were others we met, their faces fading and blending with the coming dusk.

There was Sovann, one of the youngest and everyone’s favorite because he was so sweet and kind and would help us do the dishes. There was Khean, the studious one, who was always quiet but very observant. There was Bong Sonith, who stayed close to us when we toured Angkor Wat and took all our group pictures. There was Bong Narith who gave us a whole gallon of a jelly ace as some sort of a welcome gift.

That was ten years ago.