When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [111]
Om asks a thin man about his destination. “We don’t want to live in Cambodia anymore,” he says decisively. “Life here is too difficult. We don’t know where we’re going, we just want to leave this country.”
From morning to afternoon for the next three days, Sala Krao is the gateway for an exodus. Their destination, we later find out, is a camp on the border between Cambodia and Thailand.
Ry, Phally, and I befriend a local woman named Art. We call her Aunt Art, a slender and friendly woman with beautiful dark eyes, perhaps in her early thirties. She has a baby girl. Inside her small wooden home, located half a mile from om’s, there are fishing baskets, pots, pans, sifting baskets, and waffle irons hanging on nails embedded in the walls. Waffle irons!
Upon returning to om’s house, I check his millstone, which is used for grinding soaked rice into batter, among other things. Later in the evening I discuss with Ra, Ry, and Than my idea of making waffles to trade in the village for processed rice. The main customers would be the travelers who pass by Sala Krao, I tell them. People travel, they get hungry, and they buy food. My goal is to live on the rice profit so we don’t have to farm. Ra says it’s embarrassing to sell when none of the local people sell anything. Than doesn’t think people will buy my waffles, and thinks I’ll be wasting the rice I invest in the waffle making.
Unlike Ra and Than, Ry thinks I should try. With support from her, I soak about four pounds of rice to make batter for tomorrow. At dawn I get up, wash the soaked rice and the millstone, then grind the rice into batter. After an hour I’m done, then I mix the batter with a dark golden palm sugar, a pinch of salt, and water. With eggs and coconut milk, I think, the waffles would have been as delicious as the ones we had back in Phnom Penh, but as it is, they’re still good.
On the shoulder of the road, beneath the shade of tall trees, I pick a spot, an intersection where many people cross. Setting a pot of the batter down on the ground, I dig a hole, then set three stones on its edge to support the iron.
Ry brings me firewood, Aunt Art’s waffle iron, a platter, a fork, and a piece of ember from om’s house to start the fire. Map brings me an empty bucket and an empty twelve-ounce milk can. Before long I begin making waffles.
Ry, Map, and I myself are my first customers. We eat the first two waffles since they were stuck to the iron, all crumbled up. I shove a piece in my mouth. Map eagerly picks up pieces and eats as soon as I give him the go-ahead. Ry smacks her lips, thinking.
“Athy, it’s not that sweet.” She gazes at me, still thinking gravely.
“I know,” I say, grinning, glad to finally hear her comment. I didn’t want to use a lot of sugar in case we didn’t trade and ended up eating our own product.
Ry smiles and says, “This kid,” shaking her head. “I’ll go back and get some more sugar.”
“That’s why I asked you to help,” I say, laughing.
Gradually, children from Sala Krao come to watch us. They stand gazing hungrily as I peel one waffle after another.
Ry tells them, “A-oon, go get rice. Tell your moms that you want to eat waffles.” She smiles sheepishly and waves at them to go. She laughs for having said it.
“One can of rice,” I add, picking up the tin can from the empty bucket and showing it to them, “and you’ll get two of these.” I point to the waffles on the platter. Ry nudges me, giggling. Map smiles quizzically.
The batter is gone faster than I’d ever imagined. Carrying a good load of rice in the bucket, our investment and profit, I joke with Ry about our day’s work. Ry teases me, repeating some of our customers’ comments. I assume the roles of both the customers and myself, speaking as if I’m in a play. Map grins, gazing up at us, his silly sisters, as we giggle like schoolgirls again.