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I
It’s a sweltering dry season day. The midday sun is unrelenting, but you have twenty minutes until your first afternoon class.
You begin walking along the road to your high school as a truck carrying a seemingly impossible amount of potatoes rushes by and stirs up the dirt on the road. As the dust settles, you see a thin figure emerge from the opposite side - a yeij [grandmother], who calls out to you.
‘Tou na??” [Where are you going?]
You smile and yell back ‘tou sala!’. [I’m going to school!]
She laughs an old, toothless yeij laugh and and turns back into the haze of the afternoon. You keep walking.
Another yeij emerges from the house you pass. You don’t notice her until she calls out to you, ‘tou na?’.
You pause and turn back to look in her direction. It is the same yeij as before. No - you look back again. It is a different yeij.
‘Tou sala!’, you reply with a slightly confused smile and continue your walk. You are almost at school. A single bead of sweat drips down your leg under your sampot [traditional skirt].
As you approach your school, a yeij walks past the entrance.
She sees you turning into the school and yells out ‘tou na?’.
Is she the same yeij? You cannot tell.
II
You are taking a walk through the rice fields, led by your six-year-old cousin. It is hot, and you want to take a break to drink water.
You point to a spot up ahead where the raised walkways between the rice fields meet and a large mango tree provides respite from the brutal sun. Your cousin agrees to break there.
As you approach, you begin to hear Khmer wedding music. You look around, but cannot see any speakers.
The wedding music grows louder as you approach. You are almost at the mango tree. It is very loud, and it is beginning to hurt your ears. Your cousin seems not to notice.
As you are about to step into the rest spot, a small, shirtless child runs out from the high stalks of rice and grabs your hand, pulling you back from the shade.
‘Do not enter’, she says urgently as you stumble back. Her eyes are bright, almost electric blue, but her features are distinctly Khmer. ‘The music will make you crazy’, she warns.
You cannot hear her over the wedding music, and step into the shade of the mango tree.
III
It is 6 PM, and your mai [mother] calls you to eat rice. You come down from your room and sit down at the table with your family.
You begin eating. It is delicious, as per usual. She really did well tonight - a vegetable stir-fry, a stew, fried fish. After a few minutes of eating and chatting with your host family, you look down at your plate. The pile of rice has not gotten any smaller.
Your family is serving themselves more rice now. You look down at your plate. It is still full. Your pile of rice never diminishes, and you cannot leave the table before it is finished for fear of insulting your host family.
There has always, and will be, more rice to eat.
IV
You duck under the brightly colored Angkor umbrellas and enter the covered chaos of the market. Heading for your favorite cosmetics stall, you take the second right turn at a tailor and pause to admire the array of expensive beaded tops you cannot afford. A beautiful purple bodice, complete with lace and sequins, will forever be the wedding outfit of your dreams.
You pull yourself onwards to locate the cosmetics stall and purchase the one luxury item you afford yourself - Dove brand shampoo.
Hair products taken care of, you head off to the opposite end of the market to find replacement batteries. Turning back on the main pathway, you continue walking and take a left.
Wait – isnt that the same tailor? There is the same purple, sparking outfit on display as before. 'It must be a different tailor, similar shirt', you think to yourself, and keep going straight.
After passing another block of stalls, you come across the same tailor again. As you gaze up at that enticing purple bodice, black spots start to form across your vision.
Feeling anxious, you decide to take a different path. You turn right, walking slightly faster, certain that this will bring you to the far side of the market and out onto the street.
The spots are growing larger across your field of view; you barely recognize that you’ve run into the same tailor again. You cannot see the street entrance.
The darkness is closing in. Your range of vision is narrowing. Stumbling, you haphazardly make another right turn past the tailor with the sparkling purple bodice and suddenly find yourself blinking in the bright sunlight, dazed and confused.
The monster has decided to release you.
V
You see people’s lips moving, speaking Khmer, but all you hear coming out of their mouths is is ‘barang’. Small children and mothers stare at you over their baba [breakfast rice porridge], repeating ‘barang barang’. Groups of men wave to you over their beers, smiling, laughing. All you hear is a chorus of ‘barang’. Babies turn to you, make eye contact. They are saying ‘hello, barang’.
You cannot stand it. You put in your headphones to distract yourself with music. All that plays is ‘barang, barang’ over and over again.