The river moves with seasons

We tried calling Sa Li's cellphone several times, but failed to get through. Perhaps there was a problem with the server, or more likely, Sa Li had changed his number. It’s common for those living in remote areas of the provinces, outside of large city centers, to change their numbers as different servers become ineffective at different times.

So we decided to return to the small floating village of Kaoh Manou in Kampong Chhnang in search of Sa Li and his family, after not having seen them for nearly two years. The last time we visited them was in October 2008, when the water was high and the homes floated effortlessly along the river.

We did not recognize the place. Although the monsoon season had already begun, rain still had not yet fallen so the water level remained low and the dirt road leading to the boat dock was still dry. We asked one of the boat owners to take us to the small fishing village where Sa Li and a group of Cham Muslim families lived. They gave us a young boy about eight years old, to serve as our driver. He motored the boat and drove us down the river, past floating gas stations, homes, boat cafés, police stations, a small church with a prominent cross, and even a small floating school. But we could not find Sa Li and the young boy refused to take us any further.

Our young driver turned the boat around and proceeded to take us back to the dock. At a loss, we docked the boat and stopped to ask as to where Sa Li and his family might be. We found a small thatched hut with an old man sleeping in a hammock. We woke him, apologizing for the disturbance, and asked if he knew where Sa Li might be. “Ahhh, Sa Li lives here,” he said. “Just up the road.” We were puzzled. Sa Li and his family lived in a floating village, not on dry land. We followed him anyway as he led us up the small road and through the village. We passed a wooden, blue mosque on the right, which looked familiar. There were also other houses that were recognizable but they were all built on stilts on dry land.

We heard a shriek and there Sa Li was, as thrilled as we were to see him again. He led us to their home, the same home, but docked in a completely different place. During the dry season, their house floats near the main waterway. During the wet season, when the water has risen significantly, they will move their home back again, to float atop a small island (now dry) on the river.

Sa Li led us into the house and showed off his home proudly, which they had made many improvements to since we last saw them. Sa Li and his family were doing well. Sa Li bought fish from local fishermen and sold them in the market down the river in the city center. He was also working as an environmental officer for the local government, ensuring the fishermen were not fishing illegally and out of season. He was also monitoring the small farm plots along the river making sure no chemicals were being used.

Since the last time we saw Sa Li and his family they had bought some land in Ta Khmau and built a home in which their five elder children lived, knitting fishnets for a living. One of their elder daughters had stopped working in a garment factory. Sa Li’s wife, Sann Som, complained the work was tiresome, the pay was insufficient, and her daughter had no time to observe the five Muslim prayers required daily.

Sa Li and his family belong to approximately 500,000 Cham Muslims, an ethnic minority, living in Cambodia. They are all descendants of the Kingdom of Champa, once a thriving and powerful kingdom and now part of Central Vietnam. Kaoh Manou village is one of 35 Cham villages that still practice the ancient traditions and rituals of Champa. But this faction of Chams and their traditional custom is slowly dying out.

We asked Sann Som if she could prepare the same fried fish for us as last time served with green mango, mashed green tamarind, and hot chili peppers. Even two years later I could still remember the moist and sweet taste of the fish. But Sa Li had already taken the boat down the river to buy a fresh, live chicken, which they de-feathered and boiled into a soup with fresh basil leaves and lime. Sann Som, also prepared a dish of specially dried fish, which she flavored with sweet lime, garlic, and bright red chili peppers. All this was served with pearls of white jasmine rice harvested from the local rice fields.

As we ate lunch, dark clouds moved over the river and sheets of rain cut through the thickness of the heat. The river became a bright, glistening silver, punctured by large, gleaming droplets of water. We had to yell to hear the other speak.

As we ate our meal, Sa Li proudly brought an eggplant to show me. It was bright mustard orange. From the bottom it looked like an heirloom tomato. From the top stem down, it looked like a pumpkin. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Sa Li said the small farm plots that dotted the river were filled with beautiful vegetables like these. No chemical fertilizers were added. All, 100% natural. He also brought honey that was harvested from the river forests and used as traditional medicine. He told us about various roots that grew wild that cured ailments and when steeped in boiling water, made the skin shine and glow.

Life along the river moves with the seasons. From June to September, heavy rainfall brings high water and fish flowing downstream from the Mekong to the Tonle Sap River spawn in the river forests. During this time, fishing is strictly prohibited. But then spawning season ends and fishing commences again in October. The most fish is caught in January and excess fish turned into prahok, or fermented fish paste, a staple of every day Cambodian cuisine. January is also the season when the river is choked with bright, purple water hyacinth flowers called pkah komplauk, delicious when dipped in prahok.

But the seasons are changing. Water levels are decreasing, and less fish are making their way down from the Mekong to spawn in the river forests. The river forests and spawning areas are also being cut down for increased local use. The white egret, valued by the locals for their meat and delicious eggs, has also become scarce due to over hunting and the destruction of their natural habitat in the river forests.

More fisher families, especially from Vietnam, are crowding the rivers. And large fishing trawlers, also from Vietnam, dot the otherwise serene empty landscape of the immense Tonle Sap Lake. The nettings they use are small and fine, catching both small and big fish at once, allowing no fish to escape. The fishermen also fish without restrictions, making it impossible for Sa Li and other local fishermen to compete.

There are also other causes, unbeknownst to Sa Li and other members of the fishing village, contributing to the dissipation. Upstream, dams built by China, Laos, and Vietnam has decreased the natural flow of the river downstream and the consequential flow of fish as well. Another dam is also being planned upstream in Stung Treng Province along the Sesan River, a major tributary of the Mekong River.

Sa Li drove us down the river to meet some of his business friends, who also buy and sell fish in the city center. During the prohibited fishing season, they must pay 10,000,000 riels (approx. 2,380 USD) to the national Fishery Administration for the right to continue business as usual. Yet, the local fishermen, from whom they buy their fish, are still legally prohibited from fishing.