The Night The Lights Went Out In Otres

‘At Mien Pleung.‘

So I can’t get a fruit shake?

It’s common enough to hear out here in rural Cambodia. Generally accompanied by an open hand, rotated at the wrist – the empty hand, held high for all to see, is a near universal Asian symbol for ‘don’t have’.

In this case, what we don’t have, Pleung, is fire. Or more accurately – electricity.

The interesting thing about the edges of ‘civilization’ is not that the people learned to get by in the first place, but that they learned to get by without.

Seatbelts?

When that first crack of lighting splits the sky, most Cambodians, or Khmer, barely bat an eye. The coming power failure, despite infrastructure improvements by the Chinese, will surely arrive shortly. Yet for the everyday Khmer it will matter little.

Their refrigerator is generally an ice box, and food is purchased fresh, sometimes three times a day from the local markets, so spoilage is not the issue it might be in the West.

Food is cooked over rough chunks of charcoal in clay pot ovens, the glow of which is generally the only light source one sees in many homes in the evening.

In more affluent homes a small propane suitcase grill will usually be the main cooking source. The tiny bottles of propane are cheap, and readily available everywhere. Candles and trash fires provide light, but for the most part in an agrarian society people are asleep within an hour or two or sundown and up again with it.

Mosquito netting can be deployed quickly should the AC or fans stay off, and most Khmer homes can be opened up specifically to increase airflow. Built on stilts, they are generally situated in the direction of the prevailing winds. With two large openings on either end, they are able to maximize the available breeze.

The family may share one or two simple cell phones. Without the apps and connectivity bringing them into constant use, the batteries will last for days.

The children, for the most part, already forgo electronic stimulation in general, and will be just as contented digging for worms and catching beetles as they were before the blackout. There is little attachment to email or Facebook other than amongst city teens, and the majority will not mourn it’s absence too long.

Television, specifically Thai soap operas however, will be missed. But the Khmer People have survived hardships throughout their two thousand year existence. War, famine, Cold War, genocide – all that suffering packed into a region the size of Alabama. They will surely weather the silencing of television more easily.

The pain and suffering caused by this loss of Pleung will most likely only affect the expat community.

Coming from the West I will admit that I’m used to the power being on. Although growing up in the Carribean I can recall long periods, weeks even, without it, but my more recent times in the States have left me soft as a government job.

As I sit writing this on the afternoon of Day 2, sweating into my keyboard, the motionless fan mocks me from across the table.

I can’t help but wonder how the locals survive so effortlessly.

After a day westerners are annoyed. Not being able to get in touch with loved ones or work can be incredibly stressful for those still mentally straddling both worlds.

After a night people are cranky. Candles have spilled wax on things, knees have been bloodied fumbling to the bathroom, and nobody slept well in the hotbox bungalows. Yet daylight brings a higher morale. People will swim to cool off, maybe embrace the lack of a working device and really engage with their fellow travelers over this shared discomfort.

As the sun sets on the second day, and the candles come back out, morale dives again. The memories of the previous night spent soaking into bug filled bedding may be to much for some, seeking shelter at a higher end place with a generator.

Watching the bar from my room, half the place is still staring stubbornly at their gadgets, hoping to power the internet through sheer force of will. No one wants to concede their anonymity from behind their screen, but eventually the futility of constantly tapping ‘refresh’ gets the better of them. Conversations begin, groups are introduced, and by the end of the evening at least two more people will be having sweaty, fan-less, sex than before.

There are some unexpected benefits to a power outage other than casual sex with silhouetted strangers, namely noise pollution.

Asia is terribly loud. The cities like Bangkok, Saigon, and Phnom Penh sound at times like one continuous controlled demolition. The horns and trucks, and karaoke blend into a wall of sound that was quick to drive me into the countryside. Unfortunately, what I found was that it didn’t matter how far I went. Unless I was the absolute furthest guy out – sat on a rock in the ocean – somebody, somewhere, would be using a buzzsaw.

Construction or repairs of any sort in these areas basically amounts to cutting down a bunch of trees and making your own lumber. This takes time, and a lot of sawing. The kind of sawing that, when it happens at sunrise, is enough to make you think that God is punishing you.

It’s only when the thunder cracks and things go dark that the real sound of a place comes out. The clinking of waterbuffalo’s bells in the day bleeds into the chorus of geckos and frogs. Who’s louder depends on the mating season, with the Takeo gecko competing with the buzzsaw when there’s ladies present.

‘Blue Horseshoe loves Annacott Steel’

To hear the electric saws from the nearby building site grind to a satisfying halt was well worth watching my own fan do the same. To hear the Russian psy-trance bar go dark, even more so. I can sit and write this sweaty ode to silence in peace and hope it doesn’t even come back on.

Eventually though, when it’s been all but forgotten, things will burst back to electric life.

Lights, fans, and music, long dead, suddenly bang on, followed shortly by the rising cheers of the huddled masses. Ripped out of the 19th century we are thrust back into the blue glow of our gadgets, and the cooling recirculated burps and farts of our AC units.

Elsewhere in Cambodia, few notice.