Dear Readers,
Living with other people is a unique challenge, but the fact that we are good friends (for now J ) means that we try to accommodate each other as much as possible. James does more than his fair share of cleaning and Miranda cooks plenty. Miriam is busy with the baby and I do an excellent job of overseeing these busy activities. So our household runs like the trains; Sometimes we are late but we usually get there in the end, except when there is an electricity failure.
Living with the neighbours is a whole other matter. If we were inclined to complain, there would be many directions we could send James’s electricity bat.
First of all is the ever popular ‘cat’s chorus’. This charming little duet chooses the best times to sing their little lungs out. The glorious strains of their morning shrieking echoes around our concrete jungle like the ‘ride of the valkyries’. You could be excused for thinking that a civil defense siren was being activated. It seems that either the rest of the neighbourhood are excellent sleepers or the cats are regarded as a national treasure, because it always seems to be our house they pick on. Maybe those around have invested in some sort of ingenious electrified floor wiring to zip them along. In any case, they always choose one of our windows to sit near and impress us with their melodious ‘song of pain’. It floats through walls and closed windows like some sort of heinous radiation. It cannot be stopped by any natural substance and we feel the full brunt of the loathsome audio attack. I have heard that they eat dog here in Cambodia…I’m not sure about whether they eat cat, but two lucky moggies may soon find themselves on the menu at ‘Wat Christadelphia’.
One of our other nemisis is ‘Marble Boy’. This little tyke is the never seen child who’s favourite sound is a marble dropping into a ceramic cup. At any time of the day and night you will be assured of hearing the ‘pop….pop..pop.popopopopop…’ of a dropping marble on the floor above. Have you ever played that game with the plastic bottle, the sticks and the marbles? The sticks hold the marbles at the top of the container and you have to pull the sticks out without dropping the marbles into the bottom of the container. Either this creature is the worst player of the marble game in history or he is systematically trying to rob us of whatever sanity we have left. It rarely stops… and even when it does stop, you never know when ‘the sound’ is going to happen again. In some countries this sort of thing has been outlawed and described as ’torture’. I’m sure he is doing it on purpose. I mean, someone can’t do that for hours and hours on end without some sort of twisted intent, can they? If you’re up there ‘Marble Boy’….Please. Stop. Please… Have mercy upon us….
The other member of the dark trio is the phantom doorbell ringer. This fellow is a member of the dark cabal trying to force us from our home. At some dark hour, he comes like a foul wind, sweeping down the street ringing doorbells with an insistent excitement. Two nights ago, I was woken by the repeated hammering on the doorbell. In the fog of confusion, I tried to cast the sound from my mind and fall back into the soft arms of sleep but to no avail. Again came the sound, ringing almost as loudly in my mind as it did in my ears. ‘What was wrong’ I wondered with a start. I tried to rise before the sound came again, but my body refused to hearken to my commands. When it finally did, I realised suddenly that the room had changed shape and now it was a weird dark octagon. Fumbling for the door handle, I tried to walk into the wardrobe.
Dang! No Narnia.
Fumbling along the wall, I heard Miriam mutter “what’s wrong?”
Starting to panic I cried “I’m stuck..I can’t find my way out”.
“Use the door”, she said.
Heeding her invaluable advice, I turned the doorknob and staggered downstairs. ‘Ringring’
Three flights of stairs later and I was at the front door and grabbing for the key. Three turns to the left….no, three turns to the right. No…to the left….right..click. Stumbling out into the front porch I stared dumbly at the front gate and the inch thick padlock. Hmmm…not getting through there without a blowtorch.
Back inside to the door and I tried to pull the key out of the inside of the front door. It wouldn’t budge. After 30 seconds of wrestling with the obstinate front door, I hurried out, now mostly awake, to the gate, unlocked the padlock and ripped open the door to welcome my visitor in his importunity and great need.
No-one.
I looked up the street and there was no-one. I looked down the street and there was no-one down there either. Sighing, I closed the door and began locking up the fortress again. I mean no wonder there was no-one there. Waiting for me to unlock the multi layered defence grid would wear anyone out. Perhaps it all has something to do with the fact that all these houses are cavernous holes in a concrete mountain and sounds echo through all of them like a popping balloon in a water tank. The other possibility could be that the intelligent builders of these urban works of art used exactly the same doorbell in all 200 000 units. That means that Hong cho Wang, Sopheak and I all respond to the same doorbell 500 meters down the road.
Cambodia is one of the only places I’ve ever been to where fried eggs are sold via loudspeaker announcement from a slow moving vehicle in the street. When you are half distracted it almost sounds like some sort of Army announcement; “Now hear this! Now hear this! Do not leave your homes! I repeat, do not leave your homes. Looters will be shot. We also sell fried eggs. Get your fried egg needs here”.
The moral of the story…if you come to Cambodia, bring your earmuffs and your own doorbell.
Living with other people is a unique challenge, but the fact that we are good friends (for now J ) means that we try to accommodate each other as much as possible. James does more than his fair share of cleaning and Miranda cooks plenty. Miriam is busy with the baby and I do an excellent job of overseeing these busy activities. So our household runs like the trains; Sometimes we are late but we usually get there in the end, except when there is an electricity failure.
Living with the neighbours is a whole other matter. If we were inclined to complain, there would be many directions we could send James’s electricity bat.
First of all is the ever popular ‘cat’s chorus’. This charming little duet chooses the best times to sing their little lungs out. The glorious strains of their morning shrieking echoes around our concrete jungle like the ‘ride of the valkyries’. You could be excused for thinking that a civil defense siren was being activated. It seems that either the rest of the neighbourhood are excellent sleepers or the cats are regarded as a national treasure, because it always seems to be our house they pick on. Maybe those around have invested in some sort of ingenious electrified floor wiring to zip them along. In any case, they always choose one of our windows to sit near and impress us with their melodious ‘song of pain’. It floats through walls and closed windows like some sort of heinous radiation. It cannot be stopped by any natural substance and we feel the full brunt of the loathsome audio attack. I have heard that they eat dog here in Cambodia…I’m not sure about whether they eat cat, but two lucky moggies may soon find themselves on the menu at ‘Wat Christadelphia’.
One of our other nemisis is ‘Marble Boy’. This little tyke is the never seen child who’s favourite sound is a marble dropping into a ceramic cup. At any time of the day and night you will be assured of hearing the ‘pop….pop..pop.popopopopop…’ of a dropping marble on the floor above. Have you ever played that game with the plastic bottle, the sticks and the marbles? The sticks hold the marbles at the top of the container and you have to pull the sticks out without dropping the marbles into the bottom of the container. Either this creature is the worst player of the marble game in history or he is systematically trying to rob us of whatever sanity we have left. It rarely stops… and even when it does stop, you never know when ‘the sound’ is going to happen again. In some countries this sort of thing has been outlawed and described as ’torture’. I’m sure he is doing it on purpose. I mean, someone can’t do that for hours and hours on end without some sort of twisted intent, can they? If you’re up there ‘Marble Boy’….Please. Stop. Please… Have mercy upon us….
The other member of the dark trio is the phantom doorbell ringer. This fellow is a member of the dark cabal trying to force us from our home. At some dark hour, he comes like a foul wind, sweeping down the street ringing doorbells with an insistent excitement. Two nights ago, I was woken by the repeated hammering on the doorbell. In the fog of confusion, I tried to cast the sound from my mind and fall back into the soft arms of sleep but to no avail. Again came the sound, ringing almost as loudly in my mind as it did in my ears. ‘What was wrong’ I wondered with a start. I tried to rise before the sound came again, but my body refused to hearken to my commands. When it finally did, I realised suddenly that the room had changed shape and now it was a weird dark octagon. Fumbling for the door handle, I tried to walk into the wardrobe.
Dang! No Narnia.
Fumbling along the wall, I heard Miriam mutter “what’s wrong?”
Starting to panic I cried “I’m stuck..I can’t find my way out”.
“Use the door”, she said.
Heeding her invaluable advice, I turned the doorknob and staggered downstairs. ‘Ringring’
Three flights of stairs later and I was at the front door and grabbing for the key. Three turns to the left….no, three turns to the right. No…to the left….right..click. Stumbling out into the front porch I stared dumbly at the front gate and the inch thick padlock. Hmmm…not getting through there without a blowtorch.
Back inside to the door and I tried to pull the key out of the inside of the front door. It wouldn’t budge. After 30 seconds of wrestling with the obstinate front door, I hurried out, now mostly awake, to the gate, unlocked the padlock and ripped open the door to welcome my visitor in his importunity and great need.
No-one.
I looked up the street and there was no-one. I looked down the street and there was no-one down there either. Sighing, I closed the door and began locking up the fortress again. I mean no wonder there was no-one there. Waiting for me to unlock the multi layered defence grid would wear anyone out. Perhaps it all has something to do with the fact that all these houses are cavernous holes in a concrete mountain and sounds echo through all of them like a popping balloon in a water tank. The other possibility could be that the intelligent builders of these urban works of art used exactly the same doorbell in all 200 000 units. That means that Hong cho Wang, Sopheak and I all respond to the same doorbell 500 meters down the road.
Cambodia is one of the only places I’ve ever been to where fried eggs are sold via loudspeaker announcement from a slow moving vehicle in the street. When you are half distracted it almost sounds like some sort of Army announcement; “Now hear this! Now hear this! Do not leave your homes! I repeat, do not leave your homes. Looters will be shot. We also sell fried eggs. Get your fried egg needs here”.
The moral of the story…if you come to Cambodia, bring your earmuffs and your own doorbell.
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