I wake from a dream of fish: fish of all sizes, from ones no bigger than a finger to giant perch that were larger than myself. They were all trying to escape a couple of water spouts wreaking havoc over the ocean by fleeing upstream and trying to leap over the large wall damming up the river. Feeling none of their probable terror, I just tried to take photos of the unique view.
That evening I’m standing by the kitchen sink, joking around with Suzan, when the loud clang of a metal bowl interrupts us and water splashes on my pants. I look under the sink expecting to see an overturned bowl or something spilled on the floor. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. There are bowls as usual but no spills.
“Fish water” Suzan informs me. And sure enough, the water stains spreading on my pants smell vaguely fishy. I nod in agreement and go to change my pants, accepting the event without really wondering or understanding how it’d happened.
Later, Mose announces he’s going to grill fish for dinner. I watch as he prepares the hot coals and places two large fish and two smaller, catfish-like fish on the grill. They’re still whole, I realize. Their scales haven’t been scraped off and no cuts to their belly have been made meaning their innards remain intact. The only preparation he’d done was wash them. He grips the first large one with metal tongs, while it cooks. “Why are you still holding it?” I wonder.
“I killed them but it’s still alive,” he replies. Sure enough, when I look closer, I realize the fish is still breathing a little. When it stops moving he grabs the last fish: one of the smaller ones. But this one has even more life left in it because it manages to wriggle and pop out of the tong’s grip and lands on the ground. Mose picks it up, bashes it on the ground a few times and washes it off again before returning it to the grill. And finally my brain makes the final connection – solving the mystery that I’d dismissed as not important enough to ponder: the sound from the bowl and the water that splashed me happened because the fish were still alive, trying to escape no doubt.
I watch it all with a detached sense of horror and pity dictated by my logical side telling me what I should be feeling rather than any real emotion. It would certainly be a terrible way to end.
Their eyes, once clear and indicative of life, become opaque as they cook in the heat of the coals. They very quickly turn from something living into food. And as I record the moment on camera, I think again about the poem Rachel read to us months ago: “A display of mackerel”. There is that line “They don’t care they’re dead.” Though taken out of context, maybe that’s why I can’t feel too bad for them.
I certainly have no problem eating them later.
*****
I’ve eaten a lot of fish since coming here, more than I’d expected or hoped to. I never developed much of a taste for fish despite many opportunities in Madagascar as a kid or more recently in South Korea. Maybe it’s because I associate the taste of fish with the the strong smell that comes with long dead ones. I read somewhere that farm-raised fish don’t taste as good as wild-caught ones so maybe that’s another reason. Then there’s all the bones to avoid if it isn’t the processed, frozen or grocery store-bought kind.
Thankfully I’ve discovered that, despite the many bones, I rather like fish…at least in this context. It’s a common protein source here and present in most foods in the form of fish sauce if nothing else. Chunks of fish float around in sour-fish soup. Fish of all sizes can be fried and eaten in a wide variety of ways. Sometimes with plain rice or porridge, other times with rice, vegetables, and a lemon-pepper sauce. My favorite are the fish so small that, once fried, they can be eaten whole (or almost whole), their tiny bones becoming crispy and brittle in the oil. Large fish aren’t so bad either because their larger bones make them easier to spot and pick out.
Our grilled fish that night was eaten with vegetables like lettuce, cucumber, yellow flowers and a kind of mint, and dipped in tamarind sauce. In most cases when I eat fish, I pick out the bones myself. But for some reason, the past few times we’ve have grilled fish like this, Laiheak or Mose have offered me or dropped fish on my plate that they’ve already finished pulling the bones out of. Sure, I might be slower at the task than they, but that doesn’t prevent me from feeding myself.
I’m not used to accepting help from others and I’d normally bristle or take offense to what I perceive as being treated like I’m helpless. However, the caring and hospitality behind their gesture make their intentions clear. I’m touched if slightly embarrassed by their attention.
*****
So how do I wrap up a post about very fresh fish, eating it in it’s many delicious forms, and the hospitality and caring demonstrated by the people I live with and around? [Shrugs] I don’t know.
I might say something about how food preparation and meal-time are culturally rich spaces. You can learn a lot about a culture and a people based on how they eat. If you read this story and thought, “Wow, this family is very attentive and caring and views “freshness” as a very important quality in their food!” you’d be right. You’d also (hopefully) be describing many families in the world including mine back home. They’re pretty basic observations but I didn’t promise you an anthropological-level analysis.
The other thing this post makes me think of are the many references to fish in the Bible, both literal and figurative. The only other animal referenced as much as (and more than, I’m sure) fish are sheep.I sometimes wonder how relatable all the “lamb of god” and “Jesus is the shepherd and we are his flock” talk is in a country like Cambodia where sheep and shepherds don’t exist. [Then I remember that, unless you live on a farm, many people in the US are likely as estranged from those concepts as Cambodians are.]
But the fish talk…I imagine the fish talk is easy to understand here. When I think of fish, I also think of Jesus, in John 21, encountering his disciples on the beach, telling them where to cast their nets. I think of him roasting those fish and eating with them. And then I imagine them deftly pulling out bones as they chat like any group of friends at a meal. Though, to feel less alone, I like to pretend that someone in the group was too careless when they ate and accidentally swallowed a small bone. And then perhaps someone else offered a boneless bit of their own fish. Then I stop imagining because I have other things to do, other posts to write, and a newsletter to complete.
Living Liminally in Cambodia 