Souvenirs from the attic 3

The following was first published Monday, December 19, 2005, at xanga.com/blogbodia

The Sporting Life When we find ourselves in very different environments to those we’re used to, we humans often feel a sense of loss of control. This is a very accurate sense when it comes to living in another culture with another language and whole new set of rules. I’m finding that as much as we’re not to conscious or concerned about control in our home environment, when we suddenly miss the control we didn’t know we had in our lives and seek out something that we can at least have a little bit of an idea what’s going on and have some say in. For me, in Cambodia, it’s fitness. No matter where I am, I can at least control how fit I’m keeping my body. So, I get up early almost every day and go running. This is a very un-Cambodian thing to do and it provides a good dose of early-morning amusement for everyone in our neighborhood. I usually run down our road following the river and it leads me through a village area where Cham (a Muslim ethnic group) live. I get to see all the regular morning activities of eating noodles loading carts with stuff to sell at the market and kids heading off to school on their bicycles. I pass a wat and a mosque and see imams and monks beginning their morning activities. They all get to see this pale guy who’s apparently lost his mind and decided he needs to get somewhere on the other side of their village in a big hurry….such a big hurry that he even forgot his motorbike and his clothes (because he’s only wearing shorts and a t-shirt). About half and hour later this pale guy comes running the other way-he probably remembered that he should have got dressed first and that he needs his motorbike. Anyhow, it’s become a great way to start the day. I’ve become part of the morning traffic, I fit somewhere between slow bicycles-horse carts-cow carts and fast bicycles-motorbikes…I’m faster than most of the bicycles and slower than the motorbikes. Sometimes people “help” me keep pace by shouting “moi, bpi, moi, bpi” (one two one two). Sometimes a bicycle will help me keep pace by riding right beside me until the rider gets tired (bike riding is a leisurely activity here, Cambodians are seldom in a hurry). Sometimes, for a real challenge, I have conversations in Khmer as I run with a group of students who are riding to school. So on days when everything is frustrating, confusing and I can’t exactly figure out what I’m supposed to be learning; I can say “At least I had a pretty good run this morning.” Yeh, there’s probably something wrong with me. As if this spectacle wasn’t enough, sometime last month, I started playing soccer. There’s this vacant lot beside a wat close to where some of our co-workers live. I noticed that, in the evenings, a bunch of guys my age were gathering for pick-up games. So, one night, accompanied by my friend and co-worker, Ohn (more about Ohn in an upcoming post), I went to see if they’d let me play. In Cambodia, whenever you see any sort of game going on, there’s almost always some sort of wagering going on. Cambodians seem to really enjoy gambling. They gamble on sports on TV, card games on the street, games kids play kicking their flip-flops on the sidewalk, the weather, and pick-up games. At this particular field, they usually play that you pay 500 riel (about 12 cents) for every goal scored against your team and you make 500 for evey goal your team scores. I wasn’t really too keen on getting in on the wagering action, so I asked if I could just play for fun. They thought it over and decided it would be ok. Basically it was like adding a comedy act to their casino. Now they got to see this pale guy run around their field shouting nonsense and occasionally slipping in cow poop. It was a pretty fair deal. Anyhow, I play with them almost every evening. I’m slowly learning their rules which don’t include off-sides and only include corner kicks before it’s “too dark”etc… The field we play on is mostly gravelly dirt and most of it is covered by deep hoof marks from livestock and other things the livestock leave behind. One sidline of the field is a wall, about 5 feet high that surrounds a wat with lots of old stone temples and shrines, which, added to the silhouettes of the coconut trees make a nice backdrop-like right out of a movie. (Sorry, not the greates photos in the dark). The other sideline has another partial wall about 2 feet high with pillars on it. We use bamboo poles with strips of cloth tied across the top for goals. About half-way through the game every night, a herd of cows and a herd of goats come jogging through the field. Last week had just passed the ball off and I turned around to see this huge bramah cow, horns lowered, running right behind me. Adds some adventure to the game. So, after a few weeks, the guys asked me to play in an “organized”game with them on a regulation sized field. It sounded fun, so I agreed. I found out later that it was a tournament and that we’d be playing teams that actually have coaches and probably play by the rules I’m used to. The exact date of the tournament remained vague until the night before our game (last Sunday night). They said, “be here at 7 a.m. tomorrow, we’ve got a game on the big field at 8” If any of you have ever seen the movie “The Sandlot”that pretty much describes our game. We were the neighborhood kids with borrowed, unmatching uniforms who have to share shoes and we played a team who practices together regularly, have a coach, have played on a real field before and had shiny new white uniforms. But, unlike the sandlot, we didn’t beat them embarrasingly and prove that what really counts is heart and love of the game blah blah blah. No, we got beat like 8-0. I was expecting to lose; I play with these guys almost every night and I know they only use the very center part of the small lot they play on….there way no way to explain that we really needed to use the whole width of the field if we were to have a chance. But, here’s the story of “The Game” We all met at our lot, handed out uniforms, hopped on motorbikes and drove to the field. The field was roughly regulation size. Instead of grass, it was mostly gravelly dirt with a few tractor ruts in it and some sparce grass. It was also littered with enough drinking straws to ciphen the Mekong River through. But, it was relatively flat. Everyone sort of warmed up….waited….warmed up some more…..waited some more…..then we all huddled up, and talked (I thinkit was strategy, but then again, it might have been how much we were going to wager on this game). Then, our team captain had his pre-game cigarette and the referees called everyone to line up. The referees explained that we all needed to get along and not fight. Then they explained some of the rules of the game, like off-sides, that I was familiar with and the other team was familiar with. Then, we greeted the other team. Then, I thought we were greeting them again because one of their players was holding out his hand. I thought, “this is strange,”but shook his hand again. Then I noticed, to my horror, that everyone in front of me was joining hands with a player from the other team and walking out to the middle of the field! Jess was watching and made sure to get a picture of this particular cultural adjustment. (My team is the green team with red socks {yes, like Christmas}and I’m the pale guy wearing number 8) Apparently this is how they begin soccer games here… So, you already know the result of the game. At half-time, after our team captain had had his mid-game cigarette, we only fielded seven players….finally, four more could be talked into coming back onto the field. I played all 90 minutes. I guess they thought, “Maybe the American doesn’t know we’re losing. He hasn’t asked for a break, so we might as well let him keep playing, then less of us have to go out and be humiliated.” I was just thinking, “I wonder if anyone’s ever going to sub me out, after all, I keep falling in the dirt and I think my knees are bleeding pretty bad….” Anyhow, so it sounds pretty bad, but somehow, it wasn’t. Winning wasn’t what the game was about. Yeh, I’m pretty competitive, and yeh, we got knocked out of the tournament in the first round; but I’m not in Cambodia to become the next David Beckham. Somehow, strangely, I think I’m closer to the guys on my team after being humiliatingly defeated with them. After the game, we all got together back some dirt alley by a hut and licked our wounds. Actually, I was the only one with actual wounds…but they got some iodine scrubbed it on my scrapes (the burning means it’s killing germs) and we made plans to enter another tournament on Jan. 7. I think the guys on the team are slowly deciding that I’m their friend, albeit an amusing friend. Remember them and me in your prayers. ~T