I thought I would miss the change of seasons when we moved to Cambodia, but it turns out there are seasons here. They’re different, and more subtle, but as you become more tuned in, you definitely come to notice them.
Just as we used to look for any small sign of spring in Vermont, we look for hints of approaching rainy season. As March turns to April, the weather grows hotter and the rice fields grow browner and the dirt roads turn to rivers of sand. We complain about the heaviness of the air and compare notes with other expats who have thermometers, learning to do quick Celsius to Farhenheit conversion in our heads. (28 C=82 F, 35C = 95F)
We post whiny Facebook status updates about the heat. We exclaim “Kdau nas!” (“So hot!”) over and over with local shopkeepers, and feel so justified in our complaining when even they agree. We watch the sky wistfully as dark clouds pass on the horizon, teasing us for an hour before the sun sets. Lightning shows entertain us after the sunset has faded away.
We don’t bother to look at weather reports, but we watch for signs of change. Just as we used to relish the first spring day that was warm enough to throw open the windows in Vermont, we wait with impatience for the day we will have to close the windows here in defense against the rain. We have forgotten about the inconvenience of the sudden storms that will drench us and all our belongings when the rain comes for real. We've forgotten about the puddles and the muddy sandals and the splatter of red mud halfway to our knees. We’ve forgotten that sometimes we will accidentally leave the windows open when we leave the house and come home to find puddles on the kitchen floor, or on our bed. We have forgotten how inconvenient it will be to rush outside and bring in the laundry as fat drops fall on our freshly-dried clothes.
And then one afternoon the wind kicks up hard and sky grows dark. Mangoes are blown off the trees, and children race to pick them up. Bougainvillea blossoms litter the roads like pink confetti, and empty plastic bags roll like tumbleweeds. Getting caught out on my motorbike in that weather means getting my face and bare legs sandblasted as the red dirt swirls. I race home to beat the rain, and the wind blows harder still, knocking over plants on the balcony, sending cushions flying, and threatening to rip the loose piece of tin off the roof. Even my laptop briefly levitates off the table during a strong gust.
The sky continues to darken, though it’s not yet 5:00 pm. and then we can hear the rain. It comes from the west, as it always does, and you can see and hear it hit the neighbor’s house before it gets to us. Then the drumbeat of rain on the roof drowns out conversation and I breathe in deeply, the same way I do in April in Vermont when I get the first scent of spring in the air. This storm won’t last long, but it brings the promise of relief in the weeks ahead.
