Survival of the fittest

The rain here is angry. Whenever a black cloud moves in and the sky lets, I remember Forrest Gump’s description of the rain in Vietnam.

We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath.

Indeed, it almost seems to come up from the ground. Sheets of water fall so heavily and continuously that it’s impossible to see where they begin and end.

The other night, Stephen and I left our apartment on his bicycle. As he pedaled, we felt a few drops. After five minutes, the sky opened up, and we, along with a few dozen Cambodians, crowded underneath the awning at a nearby gas station, waiting for the onslaught to slow. Finally it did and we enjoyed a fun night. The next morning, I awoke with a raw, red patch on the crease of my arm. It felt like a burn. By day two, the patch, which resembled a butterfly, had turned blistery and raised, prompting everyone I encountered to say, “What happened to you?!”

I have no idea what happened, but hypothesize that, because of its shape and appearance, some kind of chemical dripped onto my arm during the night of the rainy bike ride. The oddest part is that the whole experience didn’t faze me much. It looks as though it will scar. I have the tramp stamp on my arm, a souvenir from Cambodia.

Pain thresholds heighten here. And dominance, out of necessity, is unapologetic. People kick whining dogs, mothers drag children through the markets, frogs, rabbits, rats, and who knows what else come served in everyday cuisine. Initially, the brutality upset me. As a kid, I frantically scooped drowning moths from my swimming pool. Now, I grip an electrified bug zapper, shaped like a racket, in one hand, and an enormous can of Raid in the other. It’s that or let them feast upon my thin, white flesh. When I spray a trail of ants heading toward my refrigerator or stomp on a roach hidden behind my TV, I feel a thrill, no remorse.

As I write this, sitting on my front porch at 10 o’clock at night, a bat flew into my apartment and flapped frantically around until it found its way back out the way it entered. I shrieked and ran to the corner. I guess I’m not that tough after all.