A Cham Village in Vietnam

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. ♠

 

 

Ko Klang

We paid the man seven baht as we boarded the longtail boat. Villagers from the island use the boats to buy groceries in Krabi town. One lady that stepped into the boat after us held two bags full of food, and another carried a basket. Next to us on the dock, another longtail had a small ramp folded down from the stern for men to load their motor bikes, to ferry across the river.

As we cast off, a dark-faced male with wavy black hair, collared t-shirt and sandals sat at the aft of the boat and controlled the prop. March is almost the hottest month of the year in Thailand and this day fulfilled expectations. A slight coolness in the breeze as we skimmed forward felt welcoming, as did the occasional drop of water splashed up as the boat pushed through the river.

I was curious as to what lied ahead. Ko Klang is not usually on the destination map of those headed to the Krabi Province in the southern depths of Thailand, some 400 miles south of Bangkok. Many of the island's 4,000 residents cross the river to engage in employment brought by tourism in Krabi town. After work, they return to their sleepy hamlet and see very few tourists, except those who wander off the beaten path, like ourselves.

Our ride across the river gave us a closer view of the port of the village than we had yet to see. Shanty houses came right to the water's edge, many of them on stilts and hovering over the river. Every edifice appeared to be constructed of wood, painted various colors; roofs were sometimes supplemented with corrugated metal sheets, and eaves extended well over the walls of the house. The waters here were a murky brown from the stir of activities around the pier. A man waded up to his chest as we approached the dock, which was nothing more than a wooden ramp whose lower end disappeared into the water. The interior of Ko Klang was still a mystery to us, as it was shielded by a jungle of trees.

As we touched with the dock, the man driving the prop jumped out and tied a rope from the boat to a post and wrapped it around snugly and fastened a knot. He helped us over the gunwale and we walked up the wooden ramp and through a wooden shade house where the people who sat on the benches all looked at us, knowing we were not one of them. A couple of men offered us rides on their mopeds, using very basic English. We declined, wanting to enjoy the journey on our feet.

There are no cars in Ko Klang. Only motor bikes, pedestrian traffic, and the tuk-tuk, which is a motor bike with a cart attached to the side. Cement paths throughout the village were smaller than a one-lane road, and traffic was sparse to say the least. It was normal to go five or ten minutes without a passerby.

Although Ko Klang is designated as an island, it isn't in the same mold as your other islands of Southern Thailand such as Phi Phi and Phuket. According to one local man, there is only one beach and it is too far away to walk and very trashy. Also, the island is not completely surrounded by ocean, but mostly rivers and inlets. The indigenous mangrove tree occupies about a third of the island, while the rest has been carved out by man and is used as dwelling and farmland, including many rice fields.

Upon leaving the pier and gradually coming upon the village by means of the pathway, there was a large sign with pictures and words to the drifting tourists like ourselves. So that there was no confusion, the sign stated bluntly that no alcohol, drugs, pigs, dogs, nor immodesty were allowed on the island. You see, Ko Klang, unlike much of the rest of Buddhist Thailand, is ninety-eight percent Muslim. This tends to reflect the influence of Malaysia, which isn't too far to the south. The people here (I believe) have a different look to them that slants away from the Asian appearance found in Bangkok. The women keep their heads covered with a hijab, and the men (with the exception of some working near the water) dress modestly with pants and shirt.

Most of the homes rested on stilts, probably a measure against a tsunami. Animals appeared to wander freely and snack on forage near the homes. We saw roosters, cats, goats, and what appeared to be a water buffalo tied to the post of a house. It is interesting that most of the homes had at least two or three bird cages dangling from the porch―I don't know the significance. Laundry was also left to dry alongside pots and pans used for cooking. We saw a sink used for washing dishes on one porch, with a PVC pipe running away to drain the water, obviously a sign of no indoor plumbing.

Some villagers would sell fruit or drinks from the front of their homes. Often this was a rather a humble person who spoke no English, with very few customers for the day. One lady stopped on her moped to sell us pineapple on a stick and a small bag of popcorn. She carried all her goods on a cart attached to the bike. She spoke little English, but left with a smile when we bought her goods.

After roaming the outskirts of the village, not knowing the location of the center, we asked around to several people for the whereabouts of the mosque. We thought they would know what we were asking, but time after time, we got a blank look and a shake of the head. At length, one man understood our query and pointed just up the pathway to a low-lying building that hid behind the trees from our angle. This was the mosque.

I had expected the mosque to be somewhat grandiose. It was not. The simple cement structure had white walls and an ocean-blue onion dome on top, with peeling paint. Atop the dome, perched like a weather vane, was the crescent moon, symbol of the Muslim world. A motor bike parked in front, although we saw no one come in or out. I walked to a front portico, knowing I couldn't go inside, and observed the finely polished indigo tiles—by far the most exquisite feature outside the mosque. One lone sign near the entrance read something in Thai script that I didn't understand.

We arrived at a fish farm, which is an occasional stop for tourists who do boat tours from Krabi town. Access is gained via a backdoor inlet of the Krabi River, crawling through eerie mangrove forests, and docking next to the farm, completely circumventing the rest of the village. We were already familiar with this nook of Ko Klang from our boat ride the day before. We stopped here for about thirty minutes while a young Thai man pulled different exotic fish from wooden tanks for us to touch and take pictures.

Although it was the day before, I should mention something of the large mangrove forests that surround Ko Klang. We came through at low-tide when the roots of the trees stood up as if on tip-toes, and appeared almost as large spiders, the roots tangling with themselves as they drooped into the water. The branches above us created a canopy that blocked most of the sky. A trio of long-tailed macaques swung from one branch to another, proving very difficult to spot through the jumble of limbs. The water sat strangely still, and I half-expected something to lung from its depths and snap at us.

Immediately exiting the forest we came upon the fish farm, which consisted of several wooden huts, some on stilts and others floating on the water. Roofs thatched with palm leaves covered the huts, and some of these roofs had tires resting on top, supposedly to keep the fronds from blowing away. Although a “tourist stop” for some day-trippers, our small group of eight people were the only ones there at that moment. The buildings around the fish farm tended to be better kept than those elsewhere in the village, some with grass yards.

As we meandered to the fish farm from the mosque, it appeared exactly as it did the day before, still very quiet and not many people in view. We found a Muslim lady at a sink washing dishes.

Our purpose in revisiting this area was to find a bite to eat, as the day before left us no time for such an endeavor. We sat at the only restaurant we knew of, a shaded, open-air structure that floated on the water. I ordered salted fish curry, and Jenelle, fried rice. When the boy brought our food, I couldn't believe the size of the bowl and the saltiness of the fish. In addition to the strong flavor, I found the texture to be very woody, including very fibrous kaffir lime leaves. When we finished and had no more room within us, they brought out large wedges of watermelon. We ate what we could and spat the seeds into the water.

After our meal we walked back toward the pier, following a different route. We passed more of the same: shanty huts on stilts, roosters roaming the yard, and the occasional motor bike purring by. Oh how I wished that I wasn't a tourist and could walk inside a home to see how they really lived. We saw shoes placed near the threshold of a door, in typical Thai fashion in respect for the home, but what remained inside was a mystery to us. What of the smells, the food, the furniture, the religious emblems, and people?

We passed a worn-down dirt field with grass and trees growing around it. On each side was a small frame of a soccer goal, without net and very rusty. This was their playing field, the bare-minimum by most standards, but probably all they needed. Although no one was on it at this time, the weeds in the center were worn from being trampled upon and used.

Our wanderings of nearly four hours brought us back to the pier where we didn't have to wait long to catch a longtail back to Krabi town. By now the large sun had traveled directly above us, and the sweltering humidity took the edge off of any romantic notions of being in a tropical island village. As I embarked, I asked the boatman the price of crossing the river in his vessel.

“Twenty-five baht,” he said, in broken English.

The price had more than tripled. This was because there were fewer people to share the boat, he said. No importance either way. The boatman started his engine and slowly guided us away from Ko Klang. ♠