The Line Drawn by Silence—An Afternoon at Tonle Sap (Chong Kneas) [Memories from Abroad #10 | Cambodia Part-02]

This was back in 2017.
Usually, a tour is the safer bet here.
The standard Tonle Sap Lake course.
—crocodile farms, mangroves, and charity facilities for those interested.
The route and prices are set in advance, leaving little room for misunderstanding.
On the other hand, if you arrange it yourself,
the prices and suggestions fluctuate with the mood of the moment,
and you may be strongly encouraged to donate or buy a 'bag of rice.'
There are many travelogues that mention having an unpleasant experience.
If you want to see it safely, a tour is—probably the right choice.

Even so, I chose to go independently that day.
Because I didn't want an explanation through a filter,
I wanted to hear the voices of the people living on the lake directly.
I visited Chong Kneas.

Took a tuk-tuk from Siem Reap to the lake.
The driver called a 'friend,' and the boat departed after an impromptu negotiation.
Three of us in a blue wooden boat.
The one in charge is the older 'big brother,'
and the two younger ones following his instructions seem like 'little brothers.'
I am the only passenger.
On the way, he let me hold the rudder for a bit.
The local seafood chili I bought from a vendor boat on the lakewas their money.
As the plate of chili went back and forth, the distance between us shrank by a few centimeters.
Honestly, the taste wasn't really to my liking.

The leader deals with me.
It starts with a touristy tone.
He praises the beauty of the lake and the wind, and points out the standard sights.
I only nod along,and steer the conversation toward their daily life.
How they manage their household budget,
the arrangements that change between the rainy and dry seasons,
and how much of the tourism aspect is just a performance—.

There is a pause there.
I noticed his voice drop by a semitone.
That the way they ask for donations and the route showing the school isn't a 'pretty story,'
that they still need rice for the day,
and that they need to feed their young companions too.
—that kind of reality was conveyed between the lines, but clearly.

He told me many things.
How much was a performance, and how much was his true feelings?
It swirled in my mind,
and the word 'scam' used by tourists felt like too convenient a label.

If it were a tour,
through the filter of a tour guide,
the story would safely close with 'life is hard / there are scams.'
But when faced with the person's own voice, the outline of that label unravels.
The boundary between performance and true feelings
was never a single line, but swayed like waves.

Eventually, we turn off the engine, and at the entrance to a narrow waterway,we switch to a small rowboat.
Only the sound of the oars cutting through the water continues,
and the other young man rowingguides the boat with glances rather than words.
He doesn't ask for a tip.
Instead,
choosing between the deep shadows and the light,
he shows me the lake as if handing over the silence itself.
When the sound vanished,
the speed of the interaction from earlier faded away.

In the silence, a space emerged to think about how to exchange.
Here, I was not asked for anything / not rushed.
Moving only with the sound of the oars, without adding any dramatic flair.
As the temperature of the transaction dropsmy mind clears.
The fast circuit of the leader-type and the slow circuit of this young man.

The fast circuit of the leader-type expands by pricing on the spot and suggesting add-ons.
The slow circuit of the young man rowing by hand quietly shows only the scope of the promise.
I realized there were two speeds on the same lake.
So, the payment returns to the starting point—the initially agreed amount.
I will not accept the additions made along the way.
Not for the sake of a label, but to get off on my own line.

At the exit of the waterway, I get off the rowboat and transfer to the first boat.
The guide once again suggested a tour of the charity or school.
I chose to just watch from the outside.
The payment is only what was agreed upon.
I politely declined when told at the end, "For your younger brother's share, too."
I need a line here, too.

The boat returns more quietly than it went.
Solar panels drink in the light with a small surface area, and
floating barrel houses extend their benches out over the water.
The satellite dish faces the sky, and the hammock sways in the wind.
Life keeps moving, yet it is also anchored.
The lake in the evening is flat, and low hills floated in the distance.

One could see the same scenery on a tour.
But this afternoon,
not the words of a filter, but the raw voice and the silence of that rowing became the core.
I pay only what was agreed.
I refuse anything more.
Instead of cutting through the righteousness with a single stroke,

I place my own line and get off.
Only the spiciness of the chili left on my tongue and the silence of the water's surface were real until the end.

The tuk-tuk driver was playing billiards with his friends at a teahouse on the shore.
He put down his cue halfway, picked me up, and returned to town.

The usual faces, the usual speed, with a little bit of the lake's flatness remaining.

Supplement | Context of this day (2017 / Chong Kneas)

Memories Abroad

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