Sweet Communist, Seaweed Water

It is 06:30. I wake up surrounded by empty beds—eight in total. I am the only guest in the dormitory. I slowly unveil the mosquito net and manage to roll out of bed. I head to the veranda for a glimpse of the ocean. With my first breath, the smell of moisture and fish penetrates my nostrils, giving me a strong kick. I close my eyes and realize this is my fourth and final day in Kep.

Since breakfast in the guest house is out of my budget, I take my bicycle and ride to the sea market. As I approach the market all vendors, mainly elderly women, turn their heads to me. They recognize the figure. thin, tall, unshaven, uncombed, and brown-skinned: the foreigner has come for breakfast again. I park my bicycle and proceed to the noodle stand. Ms. Tha is already serving me. Noodles, vegetable leaves, and spiced hot water — a Cambodian type of Vietnamese Pho. The moment I sit down, Ms. Tha serves the soup — fast and efficient. I start my chopstick fight against the slippery noodles.

As I eat, I notice Ms. Tha's gaze just above my head. I know she is staring at me. I know how amusing my messy eating looks. I raise my head from the bowl and give her a delighted smile. She smiles back proudly. Even though the only words we exchange are “Hello” and “Aw Kohn,” I still feel an incredible warmth and familiarity from her—as if she is saying, “Please, adopt me.”

I move to the next stand. It has the best and cheapest waffles in town. No electricity. No special machine. Wood, fire, and worked iron in the shape of a waffle—that’s all you need. Waffles are sold for $0.15. I get two straight from the fire, stuff one in my mouth, pay, and search for a free bench facing the ocean. Fishermen are preparing nets for another hard-working day. A couple of women remove baskets filled with living crabs from the water. Squid, shrimp, crab, fish of all sizes—everything for a bargain. People buying, people eating, people working, people standing around. A motorbike arrives to collect garbage while dogs scavenge for the remains of forgotten meals.

I finish my second waffle, wave at the fishermen, say goodbye to the ladies, pick up my bicycle, and return to the guesthouse. If in Laos Communist flags could never be seen without a national flag, in Cambodia there isn’t a road without a “Cambodia People’s Party” sign. They are literally everywhere—one every 500 meters. White typography against a blue background, perfectly camouflaged as a traffic sign.

I ride my bicycle through wonderful scenery: green mountains on my right, palm trees and the ocean on my left. Everything seems peaceful here. Silence is broken only by cheerful Cambodian children who scream, “Hellloooo!” as I pass. I shout, “Helloooo!” and wave back, trying not to lose control of my bike.

It is hot. Very hot. Drops of sweat run along my forehead. Oh! Another “Cambodia People’s Party” sign. Neutral Milk Hotel’s lyrics pop into my mind, and with this setting, I couldn’t have picked better words. I sing out loud: Sweet communist, The communist daughter Standing on the sea-weed water, Semen stains the mountain tops… Then the trumpet enters triumphantly, and I go: Para para parapa ta ta ta, Para para parapa ta ta ta…

It is going to be another hot day on the Cambodian coast.