It’s sunrise in a rural floating village in Cambodia and there is a chill to the air that is beginning to wear off as the sun gets higher in the sky. I’m perched on a low resting chair on the deck watching the village begin to stir. I’ve never been to a place like this before, where the whole village is built and morphed around the rising and falling tides. I am in Kompong Khleang, 50 km from Siem Reap and almost 300km from Phnom Penh. Every house is built on stilts, metres high, and a portion of the community live full time on houseboats tied to one another to move in unison as the river rises and falls. Downriver about 4 kms is a giant golden statue of Buddha standing tall against the horizon. The town’s messages boom over the speakers and music plays to wake the village soon. But for now, it’s quiet except for the hum of boat motors on the waters below. I could sit like this morning after morning. 

I’m here for a few days to meet with and assist, where I can, a local Primary School being built. I met with the United Nations representative yesterday and the community builders on the job. No one here thinks I’m going to be the element that makes or breaks the school build but we’ve come with money for supplies that are needed and to assist where we can, even just to have more hands on deck and get the school built faster. The students are engaged and excited to see us – more people to play with and I’m sure their parents are thrilled to have more babysitters for the day. But really, we’re the ones benefitting the most. They’ve welcomed us into their town and their homes.

I’ve woken up before everyone else and watch the boats along the main waterway with my instant coffee. My hair is tightly braided and my clothes are dusty, my face bare with sleepy eyes. The coffee tastes sweet and I’m relishing the moments before the day begins. I’m in love with being here. The days are long and physically demanding but when nightfalls, our hosts feed us feasts and then we fall asleep on the cool floor beds under our mosquito nets in large dormitory rooms with two-story ceilings and constant whirring fans. I think I could stay here for a long, long time, barefoot, clean faced and in rhythm with the sun.

Last night, our host took us on a ride up the river on a beautiful old, moss-green wooden boat to where the water meets the Me Kong. We boarded the riverboat just before sunset and floating through the reeds and out the length of the village as the sun sank was breathtaking. It looked like the true definition of divine, to me. The sky danced colours of pink and purple, duplicated by its own reflection on the wide waters. I watched from the canvas roof of the boat and pinched myself without stopping the entire way. Tan*, our local guide, told us about the movement of the river, the village’s reliance on the local fish and how the houseboats move out to sea for months of every year. I dreamt of the colours and the waters all night, waking to think about the view these villagers have every night.

This morning, we walk to the School alongside the markets and dirt roads, zigzagging back and forth across the waters. It takes us about half an hour each way and I wish I could stretch it out even longer. We pass rice fields inland, fruit and vegetable markets, beautiful stilted hand-crafted houses and smiling faces. I cross a bridge and pass by two beautiful, pious monks dressed in their rich, deep orange robes. They smile at me as we pass and I can’t believe I’m here. I’ve dreamed of Cambodia since I was a teenager and here I am, crossing a wooden bridge as these two, almost angelic, faces greet me on my way to a day’s work. I find myself craving the peace I’ve found here. And the simplicity that comes from being welcomed into someone’s home to live off the land and water. I have to eat endless amounts of rice to keep full from all the moving and walking and lifting we are doing and at the end of each day, we stand on the edge of the deck and poor water on ourselves to bathe, relishing the cool water and the heat of the air.

One night, I sit with Tan and we talk of the history of this beautiful and somewhat broken country. He tells me of his childhood, how he comes to speak such fluent English and what he remembers of the Khmer Rouge. I am silenced as he speaks of his escape from his community conscription after a few years. So many of the people I befriend here have encountered experiences I can’t begin to empathise with. I’ve never been anywhere near shoes like theirs. Their bravery, which to them seems like an ordinary necessity, seems ground-breaking to me. I try to listen stoically but a tear escapes as Tan recalls the sound of the machine gun he was given as a child banging against the ground as he would walk. I can only picture how small he must have been. How many survivors in this country hear that sound as they fall asleep every now and then in these years that have passed? How have they all remained so gentle in the wake of it all? Each Cambodian above the age of 35 has a story like Tan’s. Imagine that. Each citizen has a story of survival so unbelievable each could be a book. What does that do to a collective story? What does that do to a generation? For starters, it makes all the women think I am “too skinny”. I’m constantly told to eat more – a hangover, I’m sure, from having so little for so long. They tell me that chubbier is more beautiful and always ask me when I want to have babies. The women gather round other women and chatter about us.

Cambodia’s history provides an insight into the country but not a full picture of today. It’s not perfect, nor has the reach of the days of the Khmer Rouge been fully stamped out. I’m amazed in my time there how much of the story is sanitized and packaged to be told to the rest of the world. Many of the head leaders of Pol Pot’s regime were offered immunity from the hard hand of the law and offered positions in democratic leadership during the period of Vietnamese and US liberation. I’m told that many people still don’t feel that the country has the reality of a democracy, but if they push to make further changes, they are threatened with a reborn violence. From the locals I speak to, it sounds like the country is being led by a form of democratic blackmail and yet, there is much more obvious peace than in decades before. They are a kind people, with broad smiles but they are also assertive and sturdy. The children I meet in Kompong Khleang have strong personalities and cheeky faces.

When the time comes to pack up and leave the village, I’m torn. We are on our way to Siem Reap and Angkor Wat, places I have longed to see for so long. And yet, I don’t know if I’ll ever come back here. It’s not a place that tourists come. It’s truly a locals’ village. I think of the kids I’ve met here. What will they learn nearby the bricks I’ve laid. One little girl in particular and I take a liking to each other. She stands by me as I work and though we speak none of the same language, she holds me hand as we walk and plays with my hair while I lay cement. I wonder what will become of her? Will she always be here? Will she travel to the cities? Will she ever go to Australia? I think of the family that housed us a lot now. How has the pandemic affected them? Have they managed to lock themselves down because of the river surrounding them or has the lack of tourist travel made life harder for them too?

I hope one day I go back. I’d love to see the school finished and sit on the decks again with an instant coffee as the sunrises over the big Buddha. I crave the tapioca spring rolls and laksas and the whirring of the fans in the warm night air. I want to sit on the roof of the river boat and pinch myself, again and again and again.