Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Mornings in Prey Lang


By six o'clock, I was usually awoken by the rooster's cries, and, besides, the sun filling the house, streaming through the glassless windows and the spaces in the floorboards, could no longer be ignored. Still embraced in a hazy stupor, I would roll off the mat-covered hard wooden floor and stiff flower-printed pillows, on which I hoped for sleep the night before (and several before that); climb out of the mosquito net that encased my "bed"; stumble, with eyes still shut, into the dressing room to change into my red and saffron tribal-print sarong; and scurry down the sparsely-spaced wooden steps into the yard, past the sleeping dogs and cats, the running chickens and the curious eyes of children, straight to the giant clay jars, which held the rainwater that I would use to bathe.

All this I did quickly -- and, within a day, without thought -- so as not to miss my morning meal of wild boar or fried fish and rice. Thankfully, it was only a short, sweat-inducing walk down the dirt path to the community's wat, where the villagers waited for us.

3 comments:

  1. Samosas: It was surreal.

    Yoli: Thanks so much for the kind words, really.

    ReplyDelete

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