khmer sources

As a foreigner, it takes a long time to learn your local market. There are the obvious things, the usual ones you recognize from "home": fruit and vegetables that are familiar—but many that aren’t—and fish, the likes of which you’ve never seen, much of it still flapping around in the large metal fish boxes they use here. Then there’s the meat. Hmm … I can tell what is pork and what is beef. But there are also the "bits": the entrails and the offal, the stuff many would either chuck out or never see because it’s gone to the pet-food factory or been processed into sausages. I can tell a chicken from a duck—easier than ever here because if they’re not still alive and flapping, they’re still complete with head, legs and feet.

But it’s all the things that are completely foreign that cause the dilemmas. Do I cook this or eat it raw? Is it sweet or savory? Should I peel it, and if so, does it require a special tool? I ask the questions but the answer is often just a grin or a nod. "Do I cook this or eat it raw?" "Yes – chnung," (tasty). Helpful, but not very. "Pa-aim" (sweet). Ah that’s better, it’s probably fruit. "Do I peel it?" "Up to you." You get the idea?

So gradually the fresh produce takes on a meaning. The more familiar things become staples and, step-by-step, you add new things to the repertoire accepting or rejecting them according to taste. But the time spent searching and finding out and the frustrations of coming away no better informed, all mean that the range remains small.

And what of other provisions? Herbs and spices, household requirements, soaps and detergents, toilet paper, oil, vinegar, sauces and condiments? They’re all there, and some. But where?
Inside, of course. Packed in beside the gold jewelry, the clothing, the shoes and sporting goods and of course, the hairdressers. It’s Tuesday morning and there’s not a lot of hairdressing to be done so I approach one of the booths, careful not to become entangled in the spaghetti-like mass of water hoses and power cords. "Can you cut my hair?" "Ot baan." Okay, silly question, I’ll try the next one. Even terser this time: "Ot!" "Why?" "Ot che" ("I don’t know how"). Well I guess that’s a good enough reason for not wanting to mess with anyone’s precious locks.

Madam, who is selling quite a staggering array of clothing across the aisle has been observing my progress with some amusement and points to a booth a few meters further on where a shy looking woman sits alone. She smiles diffidently and ushers me into the chair. I take in my surroundings, quite spartan really, but the essentials are there so I settle in and watch the proceedings in silence. I don’t know her name, despite asking. Propriety obviously prevents her from divulging this handy piece of information. But I do glean that she has been cutting hair for eight years. And it shows. She works with that assured deftness that comes with experience, unhurried, and with a sculptor’s consideration for the effect of every snip.

This wasn’t exactly Kim’s salon, where I usually go, but then it probably wasn’t going to cost half as much either. The best part was the hair-wash and scalp massage at the end. Difficult conditions to work in here; it’s hot, the plumbing is makeshift and the power supply positively dodgy. But she did as good a job as anyone can with my unruly thatch and I was happy. The price: two dollars—I was very happy. I will probably go back.

I think one of the obstacles to quicker learning is that there are alternatives to the local market: supermarkets (and hairdressing salons). Small perhaps by western standards, they nevertheless have an amazing array of, well, just about everything you would expect a supermarket to have. Convenient, although comparatively expensive and catering mainly to western tastes, they provide an "out". The more comfortably off need never brave the smells nor get their feet dirty while doing the household shopping. But they miss out on an awful lot.