cambodia

Community sandals

There are many aspects of Cambodian culture that took me a while to get accustomed to. In fact, there are many aspects of Cambodian culture that I’m still not used to, even after being with my Cambodian-American wife for nearly seventeen years. For example, the idea of community sandals still baffles and sometimes irks me.

It is customary in Cambodian culture, as in many Asian cultures, to leave your shoes at the door prior to entering a home. Because of this, outside of any Cambodian home, you will typically find a pile of shoes that will include everything from dress shoes to sneakers, sandals, and flip flops, lots and lots of sandals and flip flops.

Being born and raised in an American where a person’s shoes are only that person’s shoes, my assumption has always been that a person wears only the shoes that belong to him or her. If I wear a pair of shoes to someone’s home and I take them off at their door, I expect that I will find them where I left them when it is time for me to put them back on. However, in my experience, this is not always true with Cambodians, especially when it comes to sandals or flip flops.

I have been at many Cambodian cookouts where I have left my flip flops outside, gone in the house to get something, to use the bathroom, or simply to get out of the heat, only to find that my flip flops were missing when I got back. At first, this thoroughly confused me. I had no idea where they went and I thought I had misplaced them, or that I was losing my mind.

The first time this happened, as I walked around looking for my missing footwear, I saw an older Cambodian woman walking around with giant black flip flops that looked like mine on her tiny Asian feet. I asked my then girlfriend, now wife, if the woman was wearing my flip flops. Confused by my question, she looked at the woman’s feet, then looked at me, and said, “Yeah?”

“They are my flip flops,” I replied, “Doesn’t she have her own shoes?”

“Probably,” she said, “Just grab another pair,” and then she walked away.

My black-and-white mind could not understand what was going on. It did not compute. These were my flip flops. That woman had her own shoes. Why was she wearing mine? Furthermore, why would I want to wear someone else’s shoes? Why would she want to wear my shoes, for that matter?

As I settled down a bit, I began looking for another pair of flip flops that I could wear. This created another problem. I have size thirteen feet and absolutely none of the people at this cookout, especially not the Cambodians, had feet, or shoes, that big. I grabbed the biggest pair of tiny flip flops I could find, squeezed my giant Dutch-American feet into them and shuffled around looking as weird as I felt. Eventually, I got my flip flops back and, the next time I took them off, I was sure to leave them out of the path of any Cambodians who might innocently slip their feet into the most conveniently located pair of shoes.

Over the years, I have come to understand that, while everyone comes to and leaves a Cambodian home with their own shoes, as long as those shoes are not currently being worn, they are community shoes. That is, if a member or guest of that household needs a pair of shoes to complete some task, they are going to grab whichever shoes are most convenient on their way out the door. When they are done, the shoes will be returned, maybe not to the same spot, but they will be returned. There is nothing malicious or inconsiderate about this custom. I suppose many Cambodians just see shoes as a tool, not an extension of personal identity or even property.

Chili humility

Recently, my wife took her parents to the Cambodian Buddhist Temple for a fundraiser. At the event, local Cambodian and Thai food vendors set up to raise money to donate to the temple through food sales. My wife came back with some of my favorite foods, including green papaya salad, chicken wings stuffed with Cambodian herbs, spices, and chopped peanuts, and fried bananas, which I really appreciated after a long day running and participating in a jiu-jitsu scrimmage for grapplers over forty. 

My mother-in-law brought home some produce, including a small, green bitter eggplant (turkey berry) that is used in a variety of Cambodian and Thai dishes, but she specifically uses it in one of my favorite Cambodian dishes, prahok ling. Prahok ling is essentially ground pork, fermented fish paste (prahok), herbs and spices (kaffir lime leaf, lemongrass, turmeric, etc), bird’s eye chilis, and turkey berries all stir-fried together. 

The dish is served with jasmine rice, raw vegetables such as cabbage, carrots, and green beans, and lime wedges. The prahok ling is either eaten over the rice with the veggies as an accompaniment, or the veggies are used to scoop up the prahok ling and it is all eaten together. The lime is there in case someone wants to add some acid to the dish, which I always do because I like the salty, spicy, bitter, and sour combination. 

Before we started eating, my mother-in-law warned me that there were whole bird’s eye chilis in the dish. At first, I ate around them, but then I got brave and I took a bite with a piece of chili in it. It was delicious and not too spicy. I finished what I had with the remainder of the chili and I decided to have some more. 

This time, bravery turning into arrogance, I took a couple of chilis into my bowl. I chopped the chilis up with my spoon, mixed them around in the prahok ling, squeezed some lime on it, and started eating. After my first couple of bites, I realized that something was very different. These chilis were not like the last one. My mouth was on fire and I could feel my belly starting to get warm. 

I told wife that I think I made a mistake and everyone started laughing. They know, and I know but had forgotten in a state of prideful ignorance and hunger, that not all bird’s eye chilis are created equal. Even in the same batch, they can range from a pleasant, fruity heat to regretfully spicy. I had just eaten the spectrum and now I needed to reevaluate my situation. 

Humbled and happy to give everyone a reason to laugh, I began separating the chilis from the rest of my food and enjoyed the remainder of my meal. It was not only delicious, but it was also very nice to have a sit-down, home-cooked meal with my wife, daughter, and in-laws. These occasions used to be an everyday occurrence for us because we all lived together for many years, but now that we live apart, it is more rare, and so we appreciate it when it happens. A temporarily burnt mouth and bruised ego are a small price to pay for delicious food and good company.