Coloured Streamers -- Toph

(apologies; another long post)

At the back of the former brothel, behind where the kitchen used to be are three little rooms. Two of them have cisterns and (some days) running water; the third is a little toilet area with a squat pot. Behind that is the back door, which was cemented over in its former incarnation, leaving no fire escape. We have considered breaking this barrier down, but the opening would then only face a brick wall. It does provide a slight breeze. Most of my scraping and cleaning today was in the cistern rooms.

Around 9:30 this morning, Kit and I were taking a break at the same time, and I suggested a walk. I haven’t really seen Svay Pak yet. We arrive along a dirt road, following about a 300m stretch, with a slight jog at the highway. The road continues past Rahab’s House the same distance again, ending with a Catholic Church on the left, well painted but with a large padlock. We have seen no indication that the building is used. All this we can see from our building. Directly across from us is an empty lot, used as a rubbish tip. In the mornings under baskets we can see roosters, and we wonder if they are fighting cocks.

Kit and I began by crossing the vacant lot. On the other side is a path – it would be wrong to call this a road, and we have to make way for a girl on a bicycle. As we follow a serpentine path, we lose orientation. The path winds back and forth; there is no easy way to retrace our steps. I remember being told this is where white men are led when they request something special in Svay Pak.

People sit in front of their houses, watching us. We smile, and sampeh (make a little prayerful bow with our hands folded in front of us), and I say hello, or good morning. I don’t speak Khmer, so what do I know? They are surprised – one woman in particular is clearly delighted. Has she ever heard someone white use her language? The expression on her face seems not. We are now well out of sight of the building where we work.
Even on these paths, buildings standing no further than a meter apart from each other in places, there are shop fronts. Most sell drinks, or foodstuffs. One seems to have mechanical parts, though there is nothing mechanical to be seen. Multicoloured streamers, about 4cm wide, hang from the roof of the shop fronts. It is a bright relief amidst the brown dirt which is everywhere. Then I see that they are condoms.

We have no right to be here. Fortunately we have a guide. The village hunchback, who does not speak, has adopted us, and assumes responsibility for monitoring entrances and exits. He is unforgettable – alternately comic and fierce, clearly a known presence in the village, but of no certain hierarchy. Unable to get a name for him, we have taken to calling him Yoda. He is guiding us trough the back streets of Svay Pak, where I would never be otherwise. He walks fast. As he starts sidestepping between two houses, it is clear we are no longer on even a path. I stop – some children are playing marbles, and they teach me how to shoot for distance with the middle finger, my hand like a scorpion. Since my hand lacks their flexibility, I shoot only a few inches, and they laugh at me.

I sampeh to them, and we continue the tour. The path is no winding alongside a manmade pond on one side (there is a safety fence, and houses right along the other side. One foot in front of the other we continue. The house on the right has a baby alone, swinging in a hammock. What is striking is that the house is really clean. It has been swept immaculately, and though the possessions are few they are tidy. This is not like the house with four teenage boys who glowered at us. Of the grandma with so many wrinkles radiating out from her nose that it looked like a sunburst. Or the young woman with her face painted white, and a hot pink cotton top, emerging from a room like a small warehouse.

Kit speaks to the young mother, and through gestures asks the age of her baby. Two months (or is she telling us that she has another child?). The mother is pretty, and modestly dressed, and maybe twenty. She seems to be trying to live in Svay Pak, rather than merely survive.

Yoda presses us on; he doesn’t want us speaking to anyone else. Eventually he shows us a direction, and that returns us to the far side of the vacant lot.

We cross, but keep walking. At the church some girls are skipping, and Kit takes one end of the rope, to help the children play. Skip rope, marbles – some children in Svay Pak have toys, but most do not. Across from the church is a yard, fenced with chicken wire. There is a gap at the gate. Within are over forty children, aged two to five. There is no adult or teenager within. A few play on the field at the back; others have slipped through the gate to watch the skipping. This almost looks lie a daycare. But it might also be a kennel.

There was no evidence of water in any of the houses. The cisterns at the back of the brothel seem suddenly cleaner than they were, and so we return, and I go back to work in those back rooms.

When I google “Svay Pak”, I am told it is the red light district of Phnom Penh. Except there are no lights, of any colour. The roads don’t have potholes, because they are not paved. I am also told all the brothels have been closed down by the government. Today, though, there is no doubt that the sex trade continues here. Our walk confirms the other signs we have seen. There is nothing attractive about this place. Yet still the kids play simple games with each other, and still the streamers wave in the breeze. Oh, right.