Sex and the village
Our host stood in a patch of shade surrounded by barefoot and pant-less children. He wasn’t tall but he stood strong with his muscular arms crossed at his chest. He had pronounced cheekbones, large brown eyes and teeth so white and straight that they would rival any Hollywood star. “This is Mr. Hung,” said our guide who poked a little friendly fun at our host who has fathered six children. “He’s is very busy,” said our guide, punching our host in the arm. “Every night he is very busy!”
“No problem,” said our host flashing his wide set of pearly whites.
In between treks, we decided to do a home stay in a Pnong village just outside of Sen Monorom town in Cambodia’s Mondulkiri province. A handful of thatched-roof huts dotting the village sat between rolling hills and a river, the latter area doubling as the toilet. Mr. Hung pointed to the hut we’d be sharing with his family of eight. With so many people sleeping under the same roof, I couldn’t help but wonder where Mr. and Mrs. Hung got “busy.”
The candles were blown out by 8:30 p.m., but I decided to stay up with my headlamp and write in my journal. As much as I love hammocks, I had never spent an entire night in one. I couldn’t see much through the diaphanous mosquito net but I felt cozy inside of my camouflage-colored hammock, which stretched from beam to beam across the hut.
Replacing the familiar sounds of car engines and horns, I heard a pig snorting and ramming its head into the door made of cane. The pigs, which wandered in and out of the hut all day, were just learning that their domestic curfew had ended. A scratchy transistor radio hummed softly. A fire had been burning for most of the day on the dirt floor separating the raised wooden planks which served as both a dining table and a bed. The air was smoky and warm. It was within this ashen-choked room that I realized that action is not reserved for city folks.
Twenty minutes passed. Music continued to emanate from the transistor radio. I didn’t have a pillow, so I used my fanny pack. Every time I shifted, I couldn’t help but feel precariously perched even though I saw that the hammock was securely tied. I heard mumbling from my nearby friends who were also dangling between beams. “I’m not telling them to turn it off!” hissed Thomas. “It’s only 9:00 p.m.”
Shortly thereafter, the volume on the transistor radio climbed. I heard more mumbling, but this time it seemed to be coming from the other side of the hut. We don’t speak Pnong, so I couldn’t figure out why they would want to drown out their voices. Blankets rustled. I heard a deep exhale and then a moan. I lifted my head turning my ear in their direction. Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing, I questioned? The radio suddenly got louder.
At that moment I thought: what anonymity and concrete walls swallow up in the city, scratchy transistor radios devour in the village.
