Early Morning Sidewalks

The heavy rains of the previous night left surfaces glistening as the first rays of sunlight greeted the sleepy town. Threads of steam silently rose from the tar. Making their way through the heavy air. Here and there puddles had formed. Throwing my reflection to one side as I peered into the dark waters. Hoping to see my future amongst the ripples. I realised I was not to think of the future, but to remain firmly embedded in the present. The absolute fascination of witnessing Siem Reap waking up was indeed a gift to be valued. I needed to be in the now. What I saw around me was a rapidly changing world. Within minutes, the scene would change. People would appear. Each one bringing with them renewed hope for the day. Renewed energy with which to carve out a simple existence.

As we quietly continued walking along the streets of Siem Reap, the soft light, that only dawn carries, wafted through empty spaces and deserted lanes. Respectfully touching the darkness. Her mission was to shed light on a new day. Wrapping all in her golden glow of warmth. Allowing everything to stand in its moment of radiance. She too cast her light across the waters of the sleeping river as it lay undisturbed. In  silence.

Heavenly aromas of combined garlic and smouldering wood fires infused the streets.  Here and there, the more pungent aromas of old re-used cooking oil and toxins from burning plastic made their way into the mix. The fires waited to devour the plastic their gatherers were collecting. The deadly fumes of no concern. A reminder of where I was. Life here is always a fusion of everything and anything across the spectrum. The good and the bad. The healthy and unhealthy. The easy and the tough.

Silently and without any fuss, an elderly lady headed off on her bicycle. Only noticed by the roosters who generously greeted the new day. Her packets of edibles hung proudly on the handlebars and from a huge basket balancing behind her. She guided the heavy load with ease. As she had done for a lifetime before. Her tiny, but strong  frame carved out a lonely image in the gentle light. She went forth to eke out a meagre living for the day. Both sadness and admiration filled my heart.

Yet another seemingly lonely figure passed us by. Clearly she was tired. She willed her exhausted body to continue guiding the heavy load to its destination. Resilient and determined, as she had no doubt had to be, all her life. Each morning at four o’clock, I would hear her sweeping the alleyway beside my home. The swishing sound of her crude broom intermingled with the early morning chanting of the monks across the street. Together the sounds had created a symphony. One which entered my home and made its way deep into my heart. 

A sense of deep spirituality shrouded the town. Not surprising as Siem Reap boasts having the mighty Angkor Wat Complex on its doorstep. The plants and trees dotted along the river gently awakened the odd hidden statues from deep slumber. Entwined with one another, they supported each other through the long hot days. Adding a certain mystical aura to the environment.

Early morning pavements supported the feet of the saffron-clad monks. Deep respect was shown to each monk as silence fell upon the space for a few minutes while blessings were given. The saffron robes created a kaleidoscope of colour with the deep brown waters of the river holding space in the background. Outside one of the many pagodas, young monks paused to rest after a period of gardening. The beautiful curiosity of youth etched on their faces as they watched the outside world go by.

A spirit house greeted the dawn. Hanging quietly in its basket, together with the incense, a reminder of what is held sacred.

The town is so often filled with the haunting music of funerals. Its eeriness echoes through the walls. It travels down alleyways. Through closed windows. Its deep sadness pierces into your every cell. Even though the deceased was a stranger to us. The music has the power to drown out anything and everything. One’s sanity too. The level of sound being detonated from enormous speakers had the ability to re-organize one’s mind.  Depending on the financial status of the deceased, the funerals can last for a day or up to seven days and nights. Huge tents, which ironically provide a sense of privacy during the period of mourning, are erected on the property of the deceased. Most often the tents are placed in the middle of a public road causing traffic congestion for days – making the entire ritual extremely public. I have grown to love the echoes of the funerals. They tend to remind me of reality, whilst filling my soul with a lingering comfort. They form the foundations of a community. Bringing people together on a sacred level.

Amidst the unpacking of stock and the joyful chatter of market sellers, a vendor quietly prepared her coconuts and mangoes. Taking time to display them at a strategic spot outside the school gate. Students proudly swept the entrance to their school. Situated in the grounds of the pagoda, the dark red building carried a sense of both pride and spirituality. Amidst the beautiful laughter of little children and the chanting of the monks, the drums of the pagoda bellowed through. These are the things that touch me so deeply each time I question why it is that I call this place home.

Our walk led us past my old apartment. The pale blue colour of the walls forever welcoming. Beside the beautifully curved wall, with its cascading bamboo providing a stunning backdrop, tuk-tuks lay in waiting. Their elegance and old-world charm forever holding my heart captive. There is nothing quite like perching on the backseat with a panoramic view of wherever you are heading. The tuk-tuks of Siem Reap form the backbone of our community. The drivers, each one, is friendly and helpful. They are a jolly lot who bring their own magic to the town. A magic I hope, endures the onslaught of modernity.

Around the corner the pavement held space for excess rice, the remnants of earlier meals, to dry out in the heat of the sun. Snacks were then made from the dried rice. On the opposite side of the street, young men were already madly busy repairing motos. Their friendly and helpful attitudes, a symbol of the charm and loveliness of the Cambodian people. The rest of the world can learn so much from them in terms of a caring and friendly nation. They make the time to smile. To greet a stranger. Always with hands clasped together in respect. My love for these people is immense.

 

No sooner had we walked a few paces when the sun threw her powerful rays across one and all. As gracefully as I could, I embraced the heavy blanket of humidity as it folded over every inch of my skin. The rains are always a blessing. Bringing relief whilst creating Life. They cleanse the pavements. And muffle the sounds of the night with their deep tones of nurturing. They save us from the intense heat. They are my healing. However, the silent humidity that follows brings unbearable discomfort. A discomfort that results in myself wearing only cotton clothing and a hat perhaps. I have always gaped in disbelief at the local folk who cover every inch of their bodies to prevent the sun from coming near their skin. 

Wandering slowly through the still-quiet streets, I reflected on my world that is Siem Reap. It is very much about life, lemongrass, coconuts and mangoes. Massive mango trees forever brag about their new growth. Huge bundles of coconuts hold space for each little store. Bringing their own humble sense of boundaries. Their hard shells protecting the nourishing liquid gold within. The coconuts added a sense of serenity to any given space. A symbol of health and vitality, they have the magical ability to arouse childhood memories of sun-drenched beaches, cool ocean waters and palm trees. They also have the power to create explosive thuds as they fall upon tin roofs. Becoming deadly weapons. It is said that a huge amount of people are killed each year as a result of falling coconuts!

Needless to say our walk-about was in dire need of coffee. There are numerous coffee shops in Siem Reap. Each with their own character and style. Each with their own coffees. Some more interesting than others. Some perhaps requiring a sense of adventure before entering. However, there is never a shortage of great coffee. The age of pop-up coffee shops began along the banks of  the river. Motorbikes were kitted out with everything needed to create an early morning coffee. The Khmer people certainly have a sufficient supply of initiative. They are creative thinkers and never hesitate to take risks. Every day on the streets, there is evidence of new ventures. A resilient people they are.

Early morning walks along the river gifted us the opportunity to witness a community awakening. It was as though time had stood still, just for a few more precious hours. Time to really see and appreciate the richness within our daily lives here. Somehow in Siem Reap, the pace of everyday life is not only slower, but a sense of deep calm exists. One that permeates entirety. An invisible blanket of serenity and acceptance which is present on every level of life here. The faces of the people radiate that peacefulness. There is time to talk. Time to be friendly and to truly care.  

The traditional old homes will always have a cherished place in my heart. Simple, yet functional, they convey togetherness and harmony, as there is just so much and so many that exist in close proximity. One wonders what joys and tragedies have unfolded within, with the birth of each new day.

The brilliant greens of nature and the deep brown tones of the river produce the perfect stage on which our community exists. The streets create an intricate tapestry of Life. Colour is evident everywhere. In the simplest of things. Whether it’s a bright pink bicycle hiding within lush ferns or the brilliant reds of food carts, colour is with us. Bringing with it a sense of excitement and vitality.

Damp clothes were hung out to capture the heat of the sun. With the levels of humidity rising, it takes forever to dry anything here. The hanging clothes have always brought me comfort. As do cooking pots on open fires. They are a symbol of home and security. Conveying the message that people live there. There is nurturing. Further along, a lone umbrella provided shelter to a selection of bottled pickles. Somebody’s dedicated effort to create an income.

Two elderly ladies swept the trash into a corner forming pyramids. Hopefully to be collected by someone who would then make a few cents from the rubbish. Wishful thinking perhaps.

Heavy corrugated-iron roll-up doors pierced the silence and shrieked their way into our space. Fires were lit beneath massive granite urns. Preparing for the morning rush of starving bodies. Mouthwatering aromas infused the air, beckoning us to join the mass of humanity in their quest to fill bellies with culinary delights. Putting my hesitation, or fear of the unknown rather, aside, I stepped in and enjoyed the simple meal of rice, fried pork and pickles. The stray dogs lay patiently waiting for scraps of the delicious street food. One or two humans too waited.

Once again, a moment passed when I realised exactly where in the world I was. I clasped my hands together and gave thanks.