Among the Weeds

by Rachel Adams (Australia)

Making a local connection Cambodia

I was warned about confronting poverty. I was warned about the way it clings to your skin after a hot day and how it manifests in the forlorn faces of its inhabitants. I was not warned about finding beauty in its depths or what it would feel like to leave that beauty behind, blossoming in the mire. The overnight bus crept into Siem Reap station before sunrise. I greeted a barefoot tuk tuk driver. His t-shirt swallowed his meagre build and his eyes told stories that begged to be understood. We shared a smile and began our journey. The sun rose as the wobbly wooden frame of our tuk tuk barrelled down neglected, muddy streets to the guesthouse. We carved through narrow spaces between ramshackle homes. The mud insisted we slow down. We pitched over potholes. Matted stray dogs and locals selling any assortment of convenience goods lined the gutters, staring at us from the porches of their flooded shops. The rainy season’s deluge had forced them to carry on selling under the stifling sun. Babies played in the drainage ditch. Water from the downpour had collected along the road's edge. Floating garbage, water bottles and plastic bags, rested lifelessly along the stagnant surface. Three squealing children stripped naked on the roadside and jumped into the muck. The ripples rocked the buoyed garbage like docked boats on the Mekong shore. I arrived at the gated guesthouse and was embraced by a family that appeared unaffected by the scarcity in which they steeped. A retired monk. A beaming grandfather. A three-year-old girl; Marina. As the sun set, I sat on their porch, sipping a warm Angkor beer and listening to bugs sing. My mind replayed the images of the dearth I had seen, grappling for explanations and finding none. I felt a tapping on my back. I turned to see Marina. She had cropped brown hair and curiosity in her eyes. Her mustard yellow dress was spotted in water colour stains and her left strap hung limply off her bony shoulder. She pulled me abruptly off my seat and into her garden, leaving my reveries at the table. She pulled me into the dense foliage, her golden anklet dancing. Without warning, she crouched. On all fours, she put her nose to the ground. She looked up at me and I crouched at her side. She waved her hand over a weed sprouting between the cracks of the garden tiles. The weed’s gaping mouth snapped shut and she erupted in squeals. She looked at me expectantly and swiped over the next weed. Same as the first, it shrivelled to a close. She searched my face. Pleased with my astonishment, she continued on all fours, enchanting the weeds among the tiles with a swish of her small hand, putting them all to sleep. She walked me through the rows of vegetables and introduced me to each herb and spice. As we ate dinner that night, amidst the laughter and communal dishes, she sat on my lap and pulled the peppers and lettuce leaves off of my plate. She showed them to me one by one, pointing to the garden. One morning before breakfast, she grabbed my hand and tugged at me. We arrived at the fence-line and she heaved into the gate. As the imposing wooden structure gave way, she cheered at the passing procession. A herd of water buffalo strolled by, towering over us. She threw up her arms for me to carry her. I obliged. In silence, we admired as they lumbered past. We spent the rest of the morning strolling through the flower beds. On my last day, I packed my belongings before sunrise to catch the dawn bus. Marina was still sleeping and her family hesitated to wake her. They assured me they would deliver my parting hug. They wished me safe travels as I climbed into a tuk tuk. My reveries returned on the muddy lane. She would continue to blossom among the sleeping weeds and lettuce leaves; creating magic. I thought of my garden back home. Weeds would have sprouted in my absence. I imagined crouching down among them and blowing the fluff from a dandelion stem.