Jordan and I strolled through the fish market in Chau Doc when a weathered old lady approached us. Using no English other than a few words scribbled onto a piece of paper she managed to ask us if we wanted to take a boat and see her village. Right away I recognized it as a tour of the Cham Villages that I had read about. Without hesitation, I said yes.
She walked us out of the market and onto the dock where she had a blue boat tied to a sidewall of the river. We hopped over a short gate and walked down steps to the water's edge where we stepped into the wooden vessel. She scooted around us and moved to the rear where she fired up the motor and we slowly backed into the river.
She wore a sun hat with a wide brim in front. From her position in the rear of the boat she drove it across the river, then slowed down as we began to pass the floating houses. These were one-story wooden shacks that were literally floating on the river. Most had a front porch. Clothes hung from every possible place to dry. Occasionally a person sat on the porch. Most had a wooden boat docked outside.
It was hard to believe that this was how people lived. No roads connected these homes. Only boats and water.
The boat docked at one of these homes and our guide motioned for us to get out. We stepped into a room with a wooden floor and one side completely open to outside air. In the middle of the floor was a square hole that led to a subterranean tank of fish. The fish were caged and the water in the tank was that of the river. I don't know if these fish were to be sold to markets or if they were just to be used by the household anytime they had to cook a meal.
The lady took a scoop of fish food from a bucket and when she sprinkled it into the water, dozens of fish jumped to the surface in search of a meal. One of them even jumped out, but quickly flopped back in. Then she motioned for Jordan to do it. He took a scoop and once again the fish went crazy.
This was just one room of the floating house. I don't think the lady lived there, but had permission from the owners to bring in tourists. A man walked around with shorts and no shirt while a woman sat and stared off the deck toward the river. Nearby was an empty hammock, and beyond that a door that led to the rest of the house.
We returned to the boat and continued to float past other houses of the same nature. I'm sure that many of them had the same type of fish tank. One man sat outside his house eating a bowl of rice while another cast a line with a fishing pole. Some navigated the waters on boat, bringing necessary items to their homes. Their lives were literally spent on the river.
We now slowly floated through a side-channel, past shacks made of corrugated tin and tall trees growing in the water. This was the monsoon season and the river was at high-level. Our guide pulled the boat up to a wall where she tied it. We stepped over the hull and walked up a rocky embankment full of weeds and trash. At the top of this short, but steep incline we arrived at a road.
I must say that even though our guide spoke no English, she was very good at charades. She walked us along the road and right away I could see where we were going: the mosque.
The Cham people are of a different ethnicity than the Vietnamese. They are Austronesian, most likely descend from a seafaring group from Borneo. In the fifteenth century they embraced Islam and have since held firm to the faith. Therefore, by simply crossing the river, the traveler will come across mosques, women covered with hijabs, and men wearing square hats.
She led us inside the grounds of the mosque. We took off our shoes at the bottom of the steps and walked up to the threshold of the interior. We couldn't go inside or take pictures of the inside, but we could look in and see them worship. The floor all around was made of a shiny white tile. Outside I could see a cemetery. I also saw a Muslim man taking off his sandals and washing his feet. There was a line of water spigots, probably specifically made to wash off feet.
She then took us across the street and down a narrow alley-way to another house. This was a house on stilts and the brown water of the river stood on every side below. This was the home of a Muslim lady who sold scarfs. The scarfs are used by many of the women here to cover their head. We bought two for 10,000 dong each.
We then went outside on a wooden deck and sat in chairs. The lady sat at a loom where she demonstrated how to make the scarfs. The loom was a large contraption with rolls of string on a spindle, the string coming up and over a beam which then passed through a beater. The lady pumped pedals to make it move and pulled down on a cord with each pass. Somehow those solitary strands of string came together as a beautiful silk scarf. Pretty amazing. I was impressed.
I was equally fascinated watching our surroundings. A neighbor boy from one of the adjacent shanties swam in the brown river water. When he emerged and climbed out he shampooed his hair using a bucket of rain water to rinse it off. Later he came out from his shack all dressed up in a Muslim robe and cap, probably on his way to school or worship.
That was the final event for our tour with the lady who spoke no English. She brought us back and we paid her the money, bowing to her with hands together. She was appreciative.
The Cham have a fascinating history. They descend from a warrior culture who defeated Angkor, the capital of the Khmer Empire of Cambodia, in 1181 AD. Two centuries later, however, they were defeated by the Vietnamese. In modern times they were one of many targets of the Khmer Rouge during the Cambodian Genocide. Many of their cousins to the north were annihilated. The Khmer Rouge made many threats and even arrived ten kilometers away, but didn't attack. In a village in another district they burned down houses and killed thousands of people.
Still, the Cham have endured. They were able to safely practice their religion, which varies slightly from orthodox Islam. For example, Cham women are able to leave the house and help earn a living without wearing a veils, or completely covering their face. This would be forbidden in an an orthodox society. Instead of praying five times a day, they only pray on Fridays. Instead of fasting during the entire month of Ramadan, they fast for three days. Pork is not consumed, but alcohol is allowed.
Now that we were done with our tour, we wanted to see the rest of the village on our own terms. Not far from the dock where the lady dropped us off was the ferry terminal. All day long there were several large ferries that made the continuous cycle of transporting people across the river.
We walked onto a waiting area, standing on foot while most there sat on motorbikes. There were a few vehicles. Many held shopping bags or produce that they procured on this side of the river. A lady came to me selling tickets for 10,000 dong each, which I assumed were to board the ferry. She spoke no English, but did a good job convincing me that I need to buy them. I later learned that the ferry was free and what I bought were lottery tickets!
Within minutes a ferry pulled up to the dock, unloaded its passengers, then immediately our group filed onto the boat. Jordan and I boarded while anxious motorists sped past. The trip across the Bassac River took less than five minutes. Soon we were unloading on the other side.
For the most part, the village consisted of one paved street. There was no sidewalk to speak of, and as we walked over potholes, we also competed with mopeds and bicycles. The street was lined with one- or two-story shacks built with brick and corrugated metal.
It didn't take long before we came to the first mosque. This one wasn't as large as the first. We walked around the grounds and saw no one else. Atop was a bell tower with a crescent and star as its crowning feature. Inside the bell tower were loud speakers, which I assume were used for the call to prayer.
Behind the mosque was a cemetery. Although I did not enter, I got close enough to see the grave markers. Most were in Arabic, of which I couldn't decipher. The graves were stacked so close together that I didn't understand how they could fit so many bodies.
We continued down the street which gave the vibe of a smaller town. It was difficult to pinpoint what exactly made it uniquely Cham. We saw several women wearing the hijab made from a silk scarf. Some of the men wore a kufi cap, that brimless round hat often worn by Muslims.
It was common to see sausages out to dry. We saw other Mosques, some big and others not so big. Men inside a building played a game of checkers. Dogs barked at us. Chickens and roosters loitered along the side of the road. For some reason we saw several coconut shells broken in pieces and laid out on a blanket to dry.
We crossed a canal which brought us to another Cham village. It suddenly had a different feel. It was more laid back, had less traffic and a narrower road. Now all the shacks seemed to be only one story tall. There were fewer mopeds and more bicycles.
As we walked we could inconspicuously glance inside their homes. Most, I assume, were only one or two rooms. They lined their shoes outside the front door near where they hung clothes. Many had a spirit house in the front, which I believe is used to ward off evil spirits.
Oftentimes the front of their homes were used to do their work, whether domestic or commercial, I don't know. They spread out herbs to dry and cleaned fish on large platters. For many their home was their store and they sat on a plastic stool hoping for a customer.
I saw several Muslim men wearing their robes and kufi caps inside what looked like a small restaurant. They drank tea and I wished we could have entered and ordered some food, but there were no signs and for all I knew it was a private place.
Near the canal was a fascinating spot. Here we saw homes on stilts like those we had seen earlier. From what I could tell the front of the home was on the road, while the backside on the canal. The walls were all patched together with corrugated sheets, some with a section cut out for a window.
At the end of the village the road turned to dirt. I wanted to continue, but with each step we were getting further away from the ferry. And now with the dirt road, we felt as if we were intruding more into their backyards. As it was, nearly everyone stared at us as we walked down the road. I think a tourist is a rare sight here. There was so much more to explore and we had barely scratched the surface. Reluctantly we turned around.
We crossed the canal and made it back to the original Cham village. We found a place selling noodle soup. They couldn't speak English, but we made our communication work. We sat at a table and were served a huge bowl filled with angel-hair pasta and a flowery broth. The soup contained lemon grass, basil, two thin strips of meat, and the yellow head of a flower. It had a fragrant taste. It was served with an ice-cold glass of herbal tea. We never did find out the name, nor whether it was unique to the Cham.
That was the last of our experience in the Cham village. We returned to the ferry where this time we rode for free without even having to buy a lottery ticket! We crossed the river and docked on the other side where we emerged from the ferry into the bustle and din of Chau Doc. ♠
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