SUNDAYS

I saw them down by the river yesterday, the familiar truckloads of men, women and children that are carted in from the countryside to enjoy a leisurely day by the river. They come in trucks and vans each and every Sunday, squashed together like cattle or pigs. Sometimes they even ride on top of the vans, when there's no more space for even one more person. Most of them are women, probably factory-workers, those pajama-clad ladies that eke out a living for their families in the garment industry. Sunday is their day to rest. Sunday is their day to head on down to the riverside and walk underneath the sun and smell the strong, pungent scent of the Tonle Sap. They can drift around the orange-robed monks, buy a balloon from the hopeful vendors, giggle at the occasional foreign tourists with their short shorts and big cameras.

Then the day drifts to night, the trucks start their indifferent growl, and the shy Khmer girls in their beige and blue hats hop back on the trucks. A nice day, true, and there is always next week! They scrunch together, standing in place. As the truck drives away they take a lingering last look at the river, the people, the cars, before turning their attention to the bumpy road ahead, the one that leads home.