It's always an event for me to leave my house. Everywhere in Cambodia except for tourist stops like Phnom Penh and Sihanoukville, I am stared at while people whisper (or yell) "barang" (foreigner). At first I didn't understand this whole "barang" business. Khmer people will yell this out at me when I pass by on the street or at the market and it literally means "Frenchman," or "foreigner". Because I actually am a barang (ish) and this is not how my culture behaves towards foreigners, I saw this as extremely rude. "Why do they yell "foreigner" at me?" I remember asking my culture teacher, a native Khmer, one day, "from the side of the road! It doesn't make sense." To which he, ever patient, tried to explain to me the attitude most Khmer held toward foreigners and that they didn't mean to be rude, that was an application I took by applying my own culture to this country.
Growing up in America, where all sorts of skin colors and languages can be found in any singular zip code, it's quite a culture shock to now live in a country where everybody looks the same. While wandering Europe during my study abroad days, I might have been singled out as an American due to things like wearing a baseball cap or carrying a backpack with zippers instead of clasps - but here I stick out as a foreigner just by virtue of my European descent written all over my skin.
I like to show my Khmer friends photos of my friends back home and they point and ask about where people are from. Once I got enough language to explain religions we went back and they were astounded when I named four different religions in one photograph and shrugged about it. "That's America" I said by way of explanation. One of my PCV friends here, JD (you might remember him from the brain shirt in one of my earliest posts) is African American, and Khmer are always astounded when they see a picture of him. Where is he from? they ask me. Sometimes I go the usual "America" route...sometimes I can't help myself and tell them that he's an African tribal chief-they accept that easier then me telling them he's American. Later I'll text JD and we have the same conversation where he promises to come visit and wear a technicolor dream coat. The looks on their faces when he speaks Khmer is priceless, but usually we tell them the truth-that he comes from Florida. I don't think they believe us at the end.
The only people who seem oblivious to me and my obvious foreignness are my boan brohs. In the innocence of children that surely the rest of the world can learn from, they accepted me as their big sister from day one. I mentioned that they liked to tag along with me when I hutbraan through my village - part of it was to imitate me, but sometimes Soktchea comes with me on ordinary errands and listens closely to chatter while directing me where to go. I think in his own way he is trying to protect me from whatever it is he thinks I need protecting from. They ask where I've been and where I'm going, when I'll be back and if I missed them, and they assure me that they miss me when I'm gone as well. What I did to earn this type of affection I'm not sure, all I know is that I got lucky to have them in my Khmer life.
My other encounters are not always so sugar coated. Like I said, every venture is an event. No matter where I go people stop and stare, some say "barang" or some yell, "HELLO". I am swarmed when I stop at a roadside stand by Khmer people speaking broken English. It might get worse if I speak Khmer because then they think I am a master of their language and their speech goes from slow English to rapid Khmer where I am left not knowing what I'm agreeing to and end up with an awkward smile on my face.
When I meet Khmer people they usually stare, some smile and they are so surprised when they learn that I speak their language. Sometimes they talk around me and if I smile in the right spot they are shocked that I understand them. Occasionally no one will pick up on it and then I feel like a spy and imagine covert operations where speaking Khmer might actually come in handy (except for the obvious 'everyday life'). I listen for plots to take over the world, or maybe even where they keep the secret stash of cake and cupcakes I have yet to discover in this country, never mind that I don't know any words that would be used regarding world conquest or even "oven". When they do pick up on me listening in on their conversations it always shifts from what is important to them to me becoming the center of everyone's attention. You understand? they'll ask me, and I say yes, a little bit. Sometimes I watch a change come over their face as they try to recall what they've said but generally they just giggle and ask me questions. "What's your name" and "how old are you?" They ask me where I'm from and how long I've been in Cambodia, about my family and my job - they want to know how much money I make. Often they ask me if I have a songsa (boyfriend). Sometimes I say no and suddenly am introduced to brothers and sons - a parade of shy Khmer men staring at my face and telling me that they will marry me, aht banyaha (no problem). Other times I say yes, that he's in America waiting for me and I imagine they picture a Brad-Pitt-like figure sitting in a mansion with furniture made of gold pining for my return. They press for details and I give them various characteristics from friends back home, borrowing a job from one and the likeness of another in an attempt to make my American songsa a person that I might remember from description to description. It doesn't matter, they ask me if I want a Khmer boyfriend anyway.
Living in Cambodia does wonders for my ego: everywhere I go people tell me I'm sa-aht (beautiful). They stare at my face and search my eyes, commenting on the color or the shape. "Look," they say to each other, "beautiful," an application usually followed by a comparison between my light brown eyes and their inky dark ones. I wonder briefly if their reaction would be different if my eyes were blue or green or maybe even nearly black like theirs and I always come to the conclusion that it wouldn't.
Every other person I meet will tell me that I have a Khmer face or a Khmer nose or Khmer eyes. To this I smile, making those Khmer eyes they see more prominent meanwhile wondering where in the world my European ancestry is on my face. I tell them thank you, that I think Khmer people are beautiful, and they just stare at me or shake their heads and smile. Usually someone will reach out and touch my skin, running a hand down my arm and maybe back up again - a quick stroke of luck like I won't notice it's happening. I know that they are confirming to themselves that my white skin feels the same as their Khmer dark skin, or maybe they do think a feel of my skin is good luck. They peer at the blonde hair on my arms and touch my freckles, trying not to point and usually failing. Khmer people generally think that I've won the genetic lottery what with my Khmer face and white skin and all. Sometimes I try to explain to them that in my country, people pay a lot of money to darken their skin at the expense of their health and that Americans consider darker skin beautiful. But I know that at the end of the day they will still purchase whitening soap or bleaching cream, and a quick touch of my arm will still be good luck.
In such ways are my days or travels repetitive. I have gotten used to the constant yells of "HELLO" from Khmer children on the side of the road. Sometimes I respond and sometimes I don't. But I still tire of the stares from each person who catches a glimpse of me and my sun-reflecting skin. I think I could glow-in-the-dark and still the Khmer would insist on turning on a light so they could compare the different shades of our hands.
I like to tell them about my family in America until they remind me of the classic well-meaning busybody, Mrs. Rachel Lynde, and ask more questions about my songsa than myself (um, I'm OBVIOUSLY more interesting, be aforementioned American songsa imagined or real). One day I might shock them and insist that he's African or maybe from the Middle East. At least their reactions will vary.
Regardless of the contents of my days, my favorite part is always returning to the only Khmer males who have managed to capture my heart: Soktchea and Man Kheang and the sound of "Bong! Bong! Bong-oy!" as I meander back to the blue house I call my Khmer p'taya (home).
